


Database in Transmission

by dracoqueen22



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers, Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007), Transformers Generation One, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Flash Fic Collection, Individually Warned, Multi, Some may contain Interfacing, read at your own risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:47:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 250
Words: 120,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets from all three 'verses ranging from family-friendly to porn-tastic with a variety of pairings and genres to whet nearly any appetite. Featuring favorite pairings and rare pairings and anything else I can stick in here.</p><p>All ficlets have been prompted by various readers on my livejournal and/or tumblr, credit for original prompts go to them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monster

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings: RatchetxMirage  
> Universe: Bayverse, post-2007 movie  
> Description: What happens when a medic falls.  
> Inspired by "Monster," by Paramore

"Tell me what to do," Mirage says urgently, dragging up his sense of poise and rationality and clinging to both of them, relying on them.

Trying not to stare as energon spurts from various lines and electricity crackles over a chartreuse frame. Trying to focus amid the noises of weapon fire, explosions, screaming, shouting, jets breaking the sound barrier above him, the damning knowledge that the only one who can help him, is the one spilling energon underneath him.

He's frantically pinged Wheeljack, who is on the other side of the battlefield, distracted by Seekers. He's also sent off comms to First Aid, but he fears neither of them will get to him in time.

Static crackles; Ratchet tries to speak. "Clamp the – _bzzkrt_ – main – _scrktitch_ – line."

He doesn't know what the frag he's doing. Main line? Which main line? And where? With what? Mirage knows basic field repairs, and has gleaned a few odds and ends from being in the med bay so much. But this... this is beyond him. This is the sort of damage that requires Ratchet's miraculous abilities.

A hand (the other arm is about fifty feet away, out of grasp, Mirage will worry about retrieving it later) grips his shoulder, but grips is too strong a word. Paws, perhaps, in an attempt to grip, trying to get Mirage's attention as he stares aghast at damage, rage burning in the back somewhere. Behind the fear and the worry, there's rage, too.

' _I'll tear Shockwave's spark out with my own hands_ ,' he seethes. But first, Ratchet must live. He has to live.

Warmth. Through their bond. Not an ounce of fear. Not from Ratchet who, it seems, is always fearless. Concern, yes, but for Mirage instead. Certainty. Faith. Not in a deity, but in Mirage.

He inclines his head, focuses, stares through a haze and traces a main energon line, one radiating out from Ratchet's spark chamber. Mirage finds the tear, pulls a clamp out of his field kit, and patches it up.

He tells himself his hands aren't shaking as he drags his optics back to Ratchet's face, inwardly terrified by the dimming of Ratchet's optics. Energon loss. Even Mirage knows to recognize that.

"Now what?" he asks, desperate for the next step. Mirage has no idea where to begin; he needs Ratchet to tell him. "Ratchet?"

But there's no answer to his query.

***


	2. Iridescent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Verse: Bayverse, pre-DoTM, post-RoTF  
> Characters: Ironhide, Will Lennox  
> Description: Ironhide and Will have a foreshadowing discussion  
> Inspired by "Iridescent," by Linkin Park

"Nervous?"

There's a rolling rasp of noise that Will has already learned to interpret as a snort or a huff. "Hardly."

Leaning back, Will folds his arms behind his head, drawing one knee up. "Yeah. Well, I am."

Beneath him, he can feel Ironhide rumble, a pleasing sensation that simultaneously comforts and stimulates. Which, he assumes, had been Ironhide's intention from the start. "You're no stranger to battle, Will."

"No," he concedes. "But something feels different."

Will's not even sure he can put it into words. His face goes through a series of expressions from attempting to do so. There's something in the air, something that settles heavy in his chest, twists in his gut.

"It's not going to be like all the others," Will adds, lifting his gaze, letting it roam over the twilight sky, stars peeking out through a light cloud cover. Somewhere, out there, is a dead planet that used to be Ironhide's home. "It's... different."

"Ah. You're psychic now?" Humor is rich in that deep voice. Will never ceases to marvel at that. For all that they are different species, some things remain remarkably the same.

The same fear and happiness and pleasure and pain. They are highly advanced creatures made of metal and chips and other bits that Will could never make sense of, but they are, at spark, the things that Will identifies as human. Or, according to Ratchet, the humans, at heart, are Cybertronian.

Will rolls his eyes, knocks his elbow backward, hears the low echo as it reverberates a short distance across Ironhide's frame. Probably barely felt it. "No," he says. "I'm surprised you can't feel it."

There's quiet for a moment, quiet where Will expected to hear another witty retort or a sharp bark of laughter, or some kind of amusement. Instead, the air is thick with contemplation.

"I do," Ironhide says quietly. "And I'd tell you to be careful, but I'm no recently sparked fool. This is war."

Will unfolds an arm, dropping his hand down to drag fingers over Ironhide's chassis beneath him. "Yeah, I know. Same to you."

***


	3. Incomplete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: Bayverse, pre-2007  
> Characters: Sunstreaker, Thundercracker, Skywarp  
> Description: Becoming a Decepticon is by far the most Autobot action Sunstreaker has ever taken.

It's too easy to be a Decepticon, and sometimes, Sunstreaker worries that it'll stop being a game for him. That it'll stop being pretend and it'll someday be real. It's harder now especially, since Sideswipe is nowhere near. Not even in the solar system as a matter of fact. Their bond is stretched thin, to the point it's almost transparent. To the point that if it were possible, Sunstreaker fears it would snap in two, leaving him alone.

Sometimes, Sunstreaker can hear the echoes of what his twin is feeling. He catches a loud exclamation or a pang of loneliness or a moment of obnoxious triumph. But those are few and far between. And sometimes, it's better to ignore them, too. Better not to have that distraction.

It was hard, at first, being separated from his twin. Having to think without Sideswipe resonating inside him. Having to act when he's just "Sunstreaker" and not "Sideswipe and Sunstreaker." The Decepticons like to remind him that he's been abandoned sometimes, that someday, he'll have to meet his brother on the battlefield. They like to test his loyalty, see if he's truly a part of their cause. Whatever their cause is.

After all this time, Sunstreaker's pretty sure they've all forgotten what started the war, despite having perfect memory.

It's supposed to be a good thing he's doing. The perfect optic on the inside. The Autobots always thought he'd be a Decepticon anyway. He didn't have what it took. He wasn't honorable or soft-hearted enough. They always stared, wondering why he was fighting for the wrong side. They figured that if not for Sideswipe he'd have long defected.

It's too easy to be a Decepticon, and maybe that's his problem. He's here, by his own choice, but not because he's turned his back on Prime and Sideswipe. It's because this is the only way for them to win, for Sideswipe to survive, for this war to end before any more of their civilization turns to ash. Cybertron is already gone. Sunstreaker couldn't bear it if Sideswipe were gone, too.

So here he is, sitting in a Decepticon stronghold, drinking some of the lowest grade energon that's ever passed over his glossa. He's sitting shoulder to shoulder with Thundercracker and Skywarp, listening to the latter bitch about Starscream while the former quietly sips his own poor grade energon. Might as well be an Autobot, that one, and maybe he is, maybe he isn't. Sunstreaker hasn't gotten close enough to tell.

He's here, instead of with Sideswipe on Earth, because here is important. And while the two Seekers are a poor substitute for the hole inside of him where Sideswipe should be, they'll do for now. So long as it keeps Sideswipe safe.

And it occurs to him that becoming a Decepticon is by far the most Autobot decision Sunstreaker has ever made.

***


	4. Set Fire to the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: Jazz, Prowl, past ProwlxMirage  
> Description: Prowl's first break up; Jazz sympathizes.  
> Inspired by Adele's "Set Fire to the Rain"

Jazz's quarters are an eclectic mix of order and chaos, something that Prowl only notices in passing as he sits on Jazz's over-sized berth, leaning against the wall. The soft music spilling from the speakers is not helping his mood any, but Prowl had vetoed the idea of angry, heavy metal. It grates on his sensors, even if it better matches his mood.

"Here ya go."

Prowl takes the cube of high-grade that Jazz offers him. "Let me offer a guess," he says, holding up the cube and examining the color of it, nearly translucent. "Wheeljack?"

"Close. Siders." Jazz manages a grin.

"Hmm. I'll overlook it this time." Prowl takes a sip, the clear, bright taste pouring over his glossa smoothly, much better than the nearly low-grade they've been subsisting on.

Jazz hops up on the berth beside him, holding a cube of his own. "Only because it benefits ya, right?" he says, but his cheer is obviously forced.

Prowl doesn't answer, taking a longer sip of the energon. It's good, but it's not enough to wipe his memory core of the things he'd rather forget. Sometimes, there are downsides to near-perfect recollection and long lifespans. This situation right here is one of them.

"Right," Jazz murmurs, and leans toward Prowl, their energy fields overlapping. Jazz's concern blends with Prowl's sorrow and self-recrimination. "Want ta talk about it?"

His doorwings slump, slipping out of their usual high configuration. "You are aware of the circumstances, Jazz. Is it necessary to reiterate them?"

"Helps sometimes."

Prowl shutters his optics. He is not entirely sure talking about the mess that his relationship with Mirage had become is going to help matters. Break-ups, to borrow the human term, are rare among Cybertronians, and this is Prowl's first. Then again, this is also his first relationship. Or was, rather, as it's now over, by Prowl's choice, and the realization that Mirage has been lying to him this entire time. Lying so smoothly it must have come as a second nature to him, as Prowl had never suspected the deception.

Guilt flickers through Jazz's energy field. "I'm sorry, Prowler. I honestly thought this was a good thing." He'd been one of their larger supporters, encouraging Prowl to let Mirage in, convinced that they were a good match.

"Yes," Prowl says, and takes another sip of the high-grade, letting the tingle burn through his circuits. "As did I."

***


	5. Cinema

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: TF: Prime, post episode TMI  
> Characters: OptimusxRatchet  
> Description: Optimus likes to watch.  
> Inspired by Benny Benassi's "Cinema"

He's standing at the console, servos flying over the various systems, optics trained on the screens, when he feels like he's being watched. His sensors are tuned down at the moment, as he has little fear of being attacked while in the middle of their base, but Ratchet dials them back up again. In a moment he has discerned the identity of the bot – or human for that matter – watching him.

It comes as no surprise.

Ratchet pretends ignorance, hunching down as he stares at the incomplete formula for Synthetic Energon. He will crack this formula. Of course, he could do it a lot easier if Perceptor were here, but such is the way of things.

The ground vibrates as his watcher takes another step, the sound of gears shifting, metal grinding, pistons pumping, echoing around the interior of their headquarters. Ratchet pauses, mid-thought, performing another scan. They are alone. The humans are with their protectors, doing whatever it is they do when Bulkhead isn't here destroying Ratchet's important equipment.

No wonder he is being watched. Clearly, a certain leader has plans.

"I know what you're thinking," Ratchet says, and brings up another screen, tilting his head to consider the schematic he has displayed.

Behind him, Optimus chuckles. "That I enjoy watching you work."

"Oh no," Ratchet replies, shaking his head and refusing to turn around, to acknowledge the lusty look that is surely gleaming in Prime's optics. "You are thinking of taking advantage of our solitude. Not today."

"And why not?" There's the sound of another step, and then servos rest on Ratchet's shoulders, fingers teasing at sensitive seams, Optimus looming over him with a very tangible presence, heat radiating outward. His energy field lapping at the edge of Ratchet's, coaxing him with inviting tingles.

Ratchet's carefully composed refusal slips out of his processor. "... Because."

Optimus chuckles again, leaning forward, his chassis brushing against Ratchet, a small frisson of electricity jumping between them. Ratchet barely fights back his shiver. "That, old friend, is not a logical reason."

His fingers slide away from the console and Ratchet is no longer even remotely focused on the task at servo. "Then you'll have to be quick about it," he capitulates, like always. "I am not explaining to the humans why you have your servos all over me."

***


	6. No Curtain Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: Sunstreaker/Prowl  
> Rated: T  
> Description: Sunstreaker is tired of Prowl working all the time.  
> Inspired by "No Curtain Call," by Maroon 5

A bright yellow Lamborghini stalks down the corridors of the Ark, meticulously polished, without a scratch on him, and the scowl on his face clear for all to see. Wisely, bots move out of his way. Even Cliffjumper decides it's in his best interest not to confront the yellow twin tonight. Hound wonders if perhaps they need to call Sidewsipe, to rein his brother in, but Jazz puts a servo on the Scout's arm.

He can already guess where Sunstreaker is going and he heartily approves. It's beyond time that someone has taken matters into servo.

Sunstreaker barely notices that his fellow Autobots are clearing a path for him. By the time he enters the lead corridor, he's a bit surprised that no one's stopped him. Surely Red Alert is fritzing by now.

His optics count doors until he finds the one he's looking for. He keys open the panel, practically punching the keys, and the door obeys without a single note of refusal.

Sunstreaker strides into the room without preamble, crosses the floor to the desk, and plants his servos down on it. "You're done," he says succinctly. "Put the datapad down."

Across from him, Prowl greets the demand coolly, his doorwings held high and alert, a sure sign of his aggravation. "I do not recall exchanging authority with you, Sunstreaker. Nor did I invite you into my office. Please leave."

Oh Prowl, so polite. Even when Sunstreaker's about to drag him out of here by his audial.

Sunstreaker's optics dial down, a Cybertronian's version of a human's eye narrow. He leans further forward. "You've been here for almost an Earth week. You haven't recharged. You've somehow conned Bluestreak into bringing your energon. Enough."

"You're repeating yourself, Sunstreaker," Prowl says, and lowers his gaze to his datapad.

Sunstreaker does what no one else, not even Jazz, dares to do – he snatches the datapad from Prowl's servos and tosses it over his shoulder. "It's not your fault," he says. "Recalculate in that logical processor of yours all you want, and the answer's going to be the same. You can't account for everything, Prowl. You're not perfect." He pauses, lets the words sink in, and then softens his tone. "No one blames you. And locking yourself in your office isn't going to change things."

For a moment, he thinks Prowl's stubbornness is going to win out. But then his doorwings droop ever so slightly. "What would you have me do?" he asks, sounding defeated.

"You can start by letting me help." He holds out a servo, and when Prowl takes it, Sunstreaker can practically hear the rest of the Ark sighing in relief.

***


	7. Not the Bots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: Prowl, Sideswipe, Jazz, Wheeljack  
> Rated: K+  
> Description: Prowl tries to find out the perpetrator of the last prank. But it wasn't Sideswipe.  
> Warnings: None

Vorns of serving under Optimus Prime and dealing with the various personalities of the Autobots have left Prowl with the realization that no matter how much he wishes otherwise, there are still times his fellow 'bots can surprise him. There are few more guilty of this than Jazz and Sideswipe.

Which is why when Prowl (and a very irritated Red Alert) discover that someone has somehow reprogrammed Teletraan I to play irritating jingles instead of answering a professional query... Prowl knows who to blame. In fact, he finds the usual suspects laughing it up in the Rec Room with their usual co-conspirators: Bumblebee, Bluestreak, Sunstreaker, and a new addition to their ranks, Blaster.

Red Alert on his pedes, Prowl approaches their table with intentions to demand that they fix whatever they managed to reprogram before both he and Red Alert fritz out. And preferably long before Prime returns from his diplomatic meeting.

"Prowler!" Jazz, of course, notices him first. He greets their arrival with a friendly salute of his energon cube. "How's it goin'?"

Prowl inclines his head tightly. "Today would have gone a lot better if the Oscar Mayer jingle wasn't playing on an infinite loop in the Command Center." Behind him, he senses more than sees Red Alert twitch. Also, he's quite certain the Security Director is glaring at every bot seated at the table.

"Whoa. Someone really did that?" Sideswipe asks, all innocent.

Prowl stares at the red twin. "Yes. _Someone_ did."

The usual suspects trade glances across the board until Sideswipe stands (and Jazz leans back in his chair, propping his pedes up on the table like he has no manners). "Well, it wasn't me."

Jazz makes a coughing noise into his palm.

"Or Jazz," Sideswipe amends. More coughing noises erupt around the table. "Or any of us," he corrects again and spreads his hands out in front of him. "We're not the bots you're looking for."

Beside the red twin, Bluestreak starts to giggle. Jazz looks immensely pleased with himself. Prowl is even more suspicious. He leans forward, prepared to state his terms, when Wheeljack noisily enters the Rec Room, drawing everyone's attention, especially Prowl's and Red Alert's, the latter of whom whirls around, startled.

"Have no fear," Wheeljack announces, vocal indicators flashing merrily. "I'll fix Teletraan. Somehow. Eventually. This is only a minor setback."

Silence sweeps through the Rec Room. Bluestreak devolves into all-out laughter. His prankster companions join his humor.

Sideswipe smirks, folding his arms behind his head. "See? I told ya. I think we deserve an apology. All of us."

Prowl twitches.

***


	8. Moves Like Jagger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: Bayverse, post-2007  
> Characters: Sam Witwicky, implied Optimus/Jazz, implied Red Alert/Mirage  
> Rated: T  
> Desc: Sam throws Optimus a party.  
> Warnings: implied mechslash  
> Title taken from the song "Moves Like Jagger," by Maroon 5

"Sam..." The tone of Optimus' voice can only be identified as pained with a side order of mortified and sprinkled with affection. "The sentiment is appreciated but..."

Optimus trails off, looking helplessly at the party that is in full swing. It is, apparently, in honor of Optimus' birthdate which someone has arbitrarily chosen as February 22nd for reasons the Prime has yet to discern. The largest building in Diego Garcia has been converted into a... well, it's a dance club for all intents and purposes. Which Optimus fully blames Jazz for. There is no possible way Sam could have done this on his own.

A sparkling ball hanging from the ceiling sends an array of colors in all directions. Periodically, glitter and streamers fall from the ceiling. Large speakers hang everywhere, pumping out a bass that Optimus can feel rattling through his armor. Energon is flowing freely, and Optimus doesn't need a sniff to know that it's not their everyday casual grade.

His optics swerve to a suspicious corner where the two main perpetrators of high grade brewing are comparing techniques with a third bot who is the last mech Optimus would have suspected.

The dance floor is packed with Cybertronian forms, moving, grinding, twisting, and stomping to the beat. A raised dais provides a safe platform for the humans to dance as well and Optimus is quite certain they aren't drinking anything innocent either.

And is that _Red Alert_ he sees in the corner with Mirage? Who's monitoring the systems? Watching for Decepticon attacks? Is anyone going to be sober come morning?

"Come on, Optimus. You deserve to have fun just like everyone else," Sam says from somewhere near Optimus' ankle. He raps his knuckles against a piece of plating as though to drive the point home. "This is the way we celebrate on Earth. Welcome home."

The sentiment is appreciated but... Optimus watches, helpless, as Sam dives into the crowd of dancing Cybertronians, full of complete and utter faith that they won't step on him and seconds later, Optimus spies Bluestreak lifting Sam up in his palm.

"Kid's got a point, boss bot," Jazz drawls from where he's perched himself on Optimus' shoulder as though he belongs there, causing their energy fields to intertwine and mingle in a way that Optimus appreciates. One foot keeps tapping in time with the music, as though he can't wait to get out on the dance floor. "Ya do deserve it."

And apparently, Ironhide agrees, because when he passes with Lennox in residence on _his_ shoulder, he pushes a cube of high grade into Optimus' hand and salutes.

Optimus surrenders to inevitability. "Very well. But I refuse to dance."

Jazz chuckles, a particular gleam in his visor. "We'll see about that."

***


	9. Riot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: Bayverse, post-2007  
> Characters: implied BumblebeexBarricade  
> Rated: T  
> Description: They meet again after the battle in Tranquility, and old pains bring new agony.

He's driving innocently down the street, a casual ride meant to help him relax, let his thoughts wander. Music is playing on the radio; he's tapped into the local rock station. Sam will be indisposed for another few hours so Bumblebee has time to kill. He's only halfway listening in on the chatter across the main Autobot line. Right now, Ratchet's being relentlessly teased by Sideswipe for some reason.

It's a Sunday according to the human calendar, which means the streets are, for the most part, nice and deserted. There's something about the pavement beneath his tires, the subtle crackling of bits of rock, the smell of tar and asphalt, that is soothing. Along with the warm sun on his frame and the light breeze coursing over him.

The peace is abruptly shuttered when Bumblebee's sensors scream into alarm, throwing him out of his meditative state and nearly making him swerve. A Decepticon signature is near, too near, getting closer –

 _Crash_!

Impact. Bumblebee's tires screech on the pavement, his entire frame rattling from the force of the collision. His attacker is black, ferocious – _Barricade_ – slamming into him again and trying to shove him off the road. Bumblebee is forced into a spin, but halfway through he quickly transforms, halting his momentum by slamming his pedes into the ground.

Barricade transforms just as quickly, weapons snapping out in utter threat, his four optics gleaming Decepticon-red at Bumblebee. With a whine of full charge, Bumblebee's cannon comes into play, and they stare at each other from opposite sides of the single-laned street.

"Where's your pet human?" Barricade snarls, but he doesn't immediately attack.

Bumblebee hunches down, sliding carefully to the right, matching Barricade's careful prowl to the left. Circling one another. "Not here," he says, glad that Ratchet's finally fixed his vocalizer. "No revenge for you."

"Maybe I don't care about the fleshie. Maybe I just want to pound on you," Barricade growls, full of threat, but still not making a move.

"Last time, that didn't go so well for you," Bumblebee retorts, something like a sneer in his tone, though he can't approximate the human expression on his faceplates.

"Maybe I let you win."

"That's a lot of possibility. What? Not sure about anything anymore?" Bumblebee revs his engines. "Did I rattle your processors last time?"

"I wish you had," Barricade snarls, more vicious this time, his optics flashing blood at Bumblebee, his tone so savage that the yellow mech is momentarily taken aback.

He startles, pauses, and reconsiders. Old vid-files remind him of their presence until Bumblebee carefully locks them back away. The past is the past. But perhaps... not for Barricade.

Bumblebee snaps his battlemask closed. "You _chose_ your side."

"I never had a choice," Barricade retorts and lunges at Bumblebee, all pretense of waiting gone, though his attack is not unexpected.

They clash with a resounding echo and screech of metal on metal, energy fields charged with anger and distrust, and underneath it all, so buried it is impossible to name for sure, lingering traces of regret.

***


	10. Consideration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jazz, Prowl  
> Universe: G1, pre-series  
> Rating: K  
> Description: Jazz and Prowl have a discussion regarding the inevitable war.

"War's coming."

"You noticed."

Jazz leans back against the wall, near the shuttered window, affecting a casual lean. "'Course I noticed. Would be hard not ta, what with the way business is tankin'."

Prowl hits the release, the shutters snapping open and letting him look out at bright, shiny Iacon – or what constitutes its dark, shadowy underbelly at any rate. "The Council's wrong, Jazz. Megatron will not be cowed so quickly. This is no mere uprising to be quelled by a brief show of force."

"Is this a guess?"

"Call it a mathematical surety."

Jazz's vents kick on with a loud whuff of air. "Frag. Ya know this means we're gonna hafta choose a side."

"Yes." Prowl pauses, optics tilting downward, to the mechs skittering about in the street, heedless of the doom resting on the horizon. "There will be no such thing as a neutral."

He can feel the brunt of Jazz's gaze, even with the visor. "What ya thinkin' in that logic circuit o' yours, Prowler?"

His servos land on the windowsill. "That Optimus is a young fool, nothing more than a figurehead for the Council. And Megatron is a false idealist with a thirst for power."

Jazz's fingers rap a beat on the sill, a familiar rhythm even Prowl can recognize. "In other words, either way we're fragged."

Prowl cuts a gaze at his companion. "You have such a way with words."

"I try." The teasing note vanishes. "Ya could shift the tides o' this, ya know."

"Yes, but for who?" After all, his processor yearns for the taste of battle tactics, rather than the menial, tedious tasks he's been assigned for his entire existence. Janitorial work is hardly satisfying by any stretch of the imagination.

"Heh, that's the question." Jazz hefts himself up on the reasonably wide ledge, legs swinging. "Well, wherever ya go, I'll follow. I wanna be on the winning side."

Prowl chuckles, hitting the button to close the shutters once again, closing them in the dim. "I'll factor that into my calculations."

***


	11. Battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: JazzxRatchet  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Already locked in one unending war, Jazz doesn't have the strength to keep fighting another.

His anger is like a thundercloud over his helm, lightning sparking in all directions and air rumbling ominously. Wiser mechs have already fled the Bay. Only a couple brave sparks have remained behind, electing to watch the fireworks with glee in their optics. That the twins are these brave sparks is no surprise to Jazz.

Jazz himself has no choice in the matter. Ratchet's cut the mobility to his legs so he couldn't get up even if he wanted to. (Though he can hack through Ratchet's medical overrides and restore function, Jazz prefers the rest of his limbs intact. He wouldn't put it past the Hatchet to simply remove his legs.)

Still, despite the stormy anger, Ratchet's hands are unfailingly gentle as they delve into Jazz's internals, dutifully removing scrap after scrap of shrapnel that had managed to pierce his armor.

"You'd think a member of Spec Ops would have learned to duck by now," Ratchet hisses, outwardly seething, his fury outmatched only by the fear-worry-relief mixture that vibrates in his energy field.

"Ah, come on, Ratch," Jazz replies cheerfully, ignoring the fact that they have an audience. "I did duck. It jes didn't do any good."

A rumble echoes in Ratchet's engine. In the background, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker make simultaneous noises of shocked glee. Previous attempts to get them to leave had done no good, especially since Ratchet's attention had been completely purloined by Jazz's incapacitating injury.

"You and your pit-slagged confidence," the medic all but snarls, though his vocalizer is low, the sort of soft tone that would make even Megatron have a second thought. "Only the twins are worse than you, Jazz, and you know better."

"Hey! We resemble that remark!" Sideswipe comments, not at all offended. Sunstreaker then elbows him in the side with an echoing clang of metal on metal.

Ratchet swings toward them, death in his optics. "Get. Out."

They get. Rather quickly for that matter. Scurrying out as though Slag had breathed fire on their afts.

Huffing, Ratchet returns his attention to Jazz and nearly startles when Jazz reaches up, curling fingers around Ratchet's arm. "I cut access to your motor functions," Ratchet says bluntly, but he doesn't return to work.

Jazz grins cheekily. "Sparkling play and you know it." He gently strokes a finger over white plating. "Forgive me?"

Ratchet lowers his head, optics everywhere but on Jazz. "I can't keep doing this."

He says that everytime. And yet, days later, Jazz crawls back into Ratchet's berth and the medic welcomes him. Each and every time.

Jazz sighs. "Ya really want ta play this game again?"

"It's not a game!" Ratchet all but roars, and then hurriedly dials down his vocalizer again, before too-curious audials try to learn more gossip. "I'm serious, Jazz."

"Ya always are." At least Ratchet is looking at him now, and Jazz meets his gaze evenly. "Say what ya mean, Ratch. Cause this time, I ain't fighting. I'm already locked in one never-ending war, I ain't keepin' up another."

Ratchet's answer is to bend his focus back to Jazz's repairs. The silence that drifts through the Medbay is as unsettling as it is heavy. Jazz, having not released his hold on Ratchet's arm, strokes the white plating softly.

"Is it that much of a bother?" he asks, his spark twisting inwardly.

Ratchet pauses as though considering. "No," he answers finally, vocalizer a bit staticky. "No, it's always been worth it."

He says nothing more. Jazz lets him work in silence, mulling over their conversation. And when his repairs are complete, Ratchet doesn't ask him to leave. There is, instead, a soft request to stay.


	12. The Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jazzx Optimus Prime  
> Universe: Bayverse, post ROTF  
> Description: With all decisions, there comes a price.

Earth is beautiful in its own evanescent and organic way. It can never compare to Cybertron and will never be enough, but it is adequate.

For now, it will suffice. For now, it is home. A home made more welcome by the arrival of stray Autobots and the return of one thought lost.

He is lucky to have been granted one miracle during his lifespan. Primus is gracious enough to allow Optimus two, though he must wonder if his own resurrection is a curse.

He is so very tired of this war. And it feels like a betrayal of his Autobots and his Prime standing to admit so much. Admit that he longs for peace, that he can't bear to see any more Cybertronians offline – Decepticons included. That it's shattering his very spark far worse than Megatron's blade had.

He longs so very much for the serenity of the Well once again. To have been snatched from it feels like a punishment and that... that is Optimus' personal betrayal. To his Autobots and the Matrix.

"Yer thinkin' heavy thoughts, boss bot," Jazz says from where he's perched on Optimus' chestplate, idly flicking the Prime's windshield wipers.

Optimus reaches up, drags a hand down Jazz's dorsal plating, fingers tracing a thick weld, physically obvious with it's inferior Earth-based forging.

"Do you regret it?"

Jazz tilts his helm. "Do I ever regret?"

Ah. Foolish question. Optimus corrects himself. "Do you miss it?"

"Sometimes." Clawed hands lazily slip between armor plating, toying at sensory lines beneath. "That kind of peace 'n quiet is very enticin'."

He can't conceal a wince. "I apologize. I shouldn't have-"

Jazz tweaks a line, making Optimus' vents stutter. "Shush. I wanna be here. The Well's good and all but... a bot gets lonely." His visor flashes, a tweak with his claws making Optimus shudder. "Sides, ya needed me here."

Optimus' spark thrums. "That I do." He shutters his optics. "You were missed."

Jazz chuckles. "Oh, I know that. Now come on. We don't wanna waste the night off Prowler gave us, do we?"


	13. The Quiet Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: ProwlxThundercracker  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: In which Autobots are nothing like rumors believe, and neither are the Decepticons.

Prowl hisses, pleasure streaking through his system and surging across the link to Thundercracker, deepening the strength of the loop. His grip on the Seeker's right wing tightens, applying pressure to delicate sensors.

Decepticon red optics flare brighter and Thundercracker's claws dig deeper between plates of Prowl's armor. "Oh? You enjoyed that?" The deep purr of Thundercracker's vocalizer thrums over Prowl's plating, making it vibrate in a very pleasing way.

Prowl chuckles darkly, his free hand finding a hydraulic line in Thundercracker's hip and stroking it. The arc of electricity racing over the Seeker's blue plating is a perfect testament to the desire Thundercracker transmits through their hardline connection.

"Are you surprised?" Prowl asks, backing Thundercracker into the door, where his wings make a noticeable clatter against the smooth metal. Anyone passing by could have heard the noise, though they wouldn't know what made it. "Surprised that we Autobots are not what you expected?"

"I already knew that." Thundercracker grabs Prowl's shoulder, hooking a claw in a strut beneath the armor and tugging him closer, their chestplates colliding with another arc of visible energy. "I should have guessed you would like it a little... rough, however."

Prowl smirks and dips his helm, running his glossa over the cables in Thundercracker's neck, eliciting another tell-tale shiver. "Why's that?" he asks.

Vents kicking on with a loud whirr, Thundercracker tugs again at a sensory bundle, drawing a sharp pulse of pleasure-pain that makes Prowl's systems surge with heat. "The humans have a saying."

"Oh?" Honestly, Prowl hadn't realized Thundercracker played that much attention to the humans and their culture. The Decepticons have always appeared to disdain nearly everything associated with 'those flesh creatures'. Unless, of course, it suits Megatron's evil plan of the day.

Thundercracker pushes more pleasure through their link, bombarding Prowl's emotional centers with the intense feelings. It's all Prowl can do to hold back from an impending overload. "Watch out for the quiet ones," the Seeker recites with an almost evil chuckle.

Prowl's hand shifts from Thundercracker's hips to the glass of his cockpit, stroking the glass with the edge of his fingers so that it creates a jarring vibration, sure to resonate through the Seeker's entire chassis. "Hmm. An apt statement, wouldn't you think?"

A wordless growl of appreciation is all the answer Thundercracker can give as he crashes into a tangible overload, dragging an overheated Prowl along for the ride.


	14. Show and Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: JazzxStarscream  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Jazz has a proposal and it's in Starscream's best interest to hear it.

Like all warriors, Seekers, and Decepticons, the first systems to boot upon onlining are battle systems, closely followed by peer recognition sensors, and then audials, optics, and higher processor functioning. So when Starscream onlines and registers _enemy_ in close proximity, his first instinct is to attack now and identify later.

He jerks, every intention of rolling off his berth, springing into an attack stance and aiming his null ray at the enemy's spark. However, the loud _clang_ of his wrists and ankles being restrained by stasis cuffs immediately put those actions into a halt. Then the rest of his systems online and he finds himself staring up at an Autobot.

And not just any Autobot, but their favorite smart-afted assassin, who's made a perch of Starscream's hips and seems quite comfortable to be seated there, an amused smirk on his lips as he casually aims a vibroblade at Starscream's armored spark chamber.

Well. This is certainly unexpected.

"Can I..." Starscream pauses, glossa sliding over his lips, and performs a systems check. "Can I help you?"

Jazz chuckles, something dangerous, unholy, and altogether arousing in his tone. "Depends," he says, and shifts a bit on top of Starscream, their plating sliding together with a delicious burr of friction. " Do ya got what I need?"

"I don't know," Starscream replies, and gives another token tug to his restraints. They don't budge which is only to be expected. "Do I?"

The Autobot taps the end of his blade on Starscream's armor and then withdraws it with an elegant flip, said blade vanishing into subspace. "Wouldn't be here if ya didn't. I've got a proposal fer ya, Screamer."

There's a moment of furious irritation that Starscream quickly recognizes as bait. So he swallows down the impulse to snap vitriol at the smart-aft Autobot and completely ignores the mangling of his name. "And thanks to your skilled attempt at bondage, I have no choice but to listen to it."

Jazz laughs, and slaggitall to the Pit but an Autobot's laugh shouldn't be so arousing. "I knew there was a reason I picked ya over Sounders." He leans closer, a gleam in his visor, one hand planted on Starscream's cockpit and teasingly scraping the glass. "What if I told ya I know how ta end th' war _and_ give ya old Buckethead on a silver platter?"

There's no concealing the surge of interest that sparks Starscream's circuitry. "I'd be more inclined to believe you chained me up for a quick frag," he challenges.

Jazz chuckles again, speaking this time with a tangible purr. "Oh, we'll be gettin' ta that soon enough." His fingers scrape again over Starscream's cockpit. "Interested?"

He shouldn't be but oh frag yes, he is. "Tell me," Starscream says, and smirks. "Or better yet, _show me_."


	15. Energon Pop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: MiragexHound  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Description: Mirage has a surprise for Hound.

Watching Mirage flutter around his cramped quarters like a hummingbird brings a smile to Hound's face. He has no idea what Mirage has planned, but he can be patient. If only those doubting bots could see Mirage like this, they wouldn't think him so cold and untouchable.

But then, that Hound is the only one with this knowledge makes him feel like he and Mirage are sharing a secret. He likes the sound of that, too.

"Hound."

He looks up, finding Mirage standing in front of him, his hands behind his back and obviously clutching something of importance.

Hound spreads his hands, palms upward, a common gesture to indicate his willingness to accept whatever Mirage has for him. "Yes?"

"Offline your optics," Mirage says, and then pauses, adding, "please."

Intrigued, Hound does as requested of him.

"Do you trust me?"

"You know that I do."

He doesn't have to see Mirage to imagine the soft smile on the Towers mech's lips. "Open your mouth," Mirage asks quietly, a pleased lilt in his vocalizer.

Again, Hound obeys, and is pleasantly surprised when he feels an energon cube pressed to his lips. The scent of it floats to his olfactory sensors. Light. Sweet. Airy. With a crisp bite. This isn't their usual ration.

Mirage tips the cube and the energon slides into Hound's mouth with a pop-pop of sensation over his glossa, chemoreceptors identifying a mix of metals in the energon that arouse a pleased hum in his systems. It's unusual, the way the energon crackles over his glossa, like a thousand ticklish prickles. And the taste? Even more so. Hound has never had anything like it.

"What is it?" Hound asks, vocal tones filled with appreciative glyphs.

"My own special blend. It's new. I thought I'd let you try it first." Mirage all but preens, though Hound has yet to online his optics, he can practically see it. "You like?"

"Very much so." Hound plants a hopeful expression on his face. "Got any more?"

***


	16. Mad Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: TracksxWheeljack  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Description: Wheeljack has an oops; Tracks is not amused.

"Ratchet says that he'll have some new optics ready for you by the end of the week," Wheeljack says, and he sounds half-fretful, half-excited.

Tracks imagines that his indicators are lighting up with shades of blue and purple right now. And imagining is all he's doing because right now, he doesn't have any optics. At all.

Wheeljack's fault, of course. Or maybe his own since he ought to know better than to linger around the engineer when he's off Attempting Science.

The sound of footsteps and Tracks' own proximity sensors alert him to the fact that Wheeljack is still hovering around him. His energy field is tight with anxiety.

Tracks isn't angry, per se, but he is a mite.. perturbed. He looks less than stellar right now and that just won't do. "I hope you have a plan for how you're going to make this up to me."

Hands land on his shoulders, nearly making Tracks startle as he hadn't known the touch was coming. "Of course I do!" Wheeljack replies exuberantly. "In fact," he adds with a soft purr of his vocalizer. "I could start right now if you want." His hands slide across Tracks' plating with a buzz of enticing static.

Without his optics, somehow the touch is that much more electric. Tracks feels a shiver race across his circuitry. "I'll take five tins of that special wax you're known for."

"Is that all?" Wheeljack sounds amused, and those talented fingers of his dip into a gap in Tracks' plating, finding and tweaking a sensitive line of cabling. "Well, your forgiveness comes cheap."

"That's only the start," Tracks retorts, a flush of heat spiraling outward, all of his focus pinning down on the delicious teasing of Wheeljack's fingers. Which, by the way, are now dipping into the rims of his arm tires. "I'll have you waiting on me hand and foot."

Wheeljack chuckles, and that's when a hand settles on Track's hip, fingers sliding into a gap in his armor and brushing over a transforming node that's rife with sensor clusters. "I think you just wanted an excuse to acquire a servant. Who knows? Maybe you planned all of this. Maybe... _I_ fell into _your_ wicked scheme."

Despite himself, Tracks bursts into laughter, Wheeljack's absurd statements making him shake his head even as arousal threads slowly through his processor. "You, Wheeljack, are insane."

"So I've heard." Amusement is thick in the engineer's tone. "But they said the same thing about you when you took up with me in the first place."

***


	17. Contraband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatronus, nameless medic, Orion Pax  
> Universe: TF: Prime, pre-season one  
> Rating: T  
> Description: Orion has questions; Megatronus is impressed.

"Tell me more."

Megatronus glanced from the datapad the mech had tossed to the table in front of him and then back to the mech himself. He was a civilian, that much Megatronus could tell. There was an innocence to his optics, to the way he carried himself. And while he didn't bear the strong, heavy frame of a gladiator, there was something appealing about him. Something Megatronus couldn't quite place.

Perhaps it was the way the mech, Orion Pax, looked at him. Without a trace of fear despite knowing Megatronus to be a killer. His optics were naïve, but also oddly searing, looking right through Megatronus to his core.

Megatronus fought off a twitch as his medic yanked a torn wire too hard, tossing the medic an irritated look. "Are you aware you're reading contraband?" he asked with a smirk, without looking at Orion.

He registered Orion leaning forward from his proximity sensors, planting his palms on the table. "From what I've read, you're not a mech who bothers about such trivial laws."

"Point." Megatronus glanced at his medic. He was as fixed as he needed to be. His self-repair could handle the rest. "Leave us."

He waited until the arena medic left the room before he spoke again. "What do you want to know, Orion Pax?"

Here the archivist displayed his first true hesitation until finally he said, "Everything." Orion paused, his blue optics boring into Megatronus' own. "You... you're right. What you demand, it's not unreasonable. Though I would be claiming a lie if I said I'd considered it before."

Megatronus arched an orbital ridge. "Oh?"

Heat rose in Orion's faceplate, visible even to Megatronus. "Until I read your declaration, I didn't know the name of what I was searching for."

Megatronus leaned forward, ignoring the painful twinge in his shoulder joint. "And you know now?"

Gone was the hesitation. "Yes," Orion replied.

Interesting. Megatronus' lips curved into a smirk. He sat back in his seat, lounging on the wide sofa. "Take a seat, Orion Pax," he said, gesturing to the open chair opposite the table from him. "And tell me what it is that you want."

***


	18. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sideswipe, Blaster, Bluestreak, Jazz, Sunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Description: Jazz and the gang jokingly reminisce about Megatron's master plans.

"So then Megatron shows up with a giant purple griffin!" Sideswipe says and bursts into laughter, nearly spilling his cube of high grade.

"No way!" Blaster cackles, one hand slapping Sideswipe's chestplate as he leans against the red twin. "Why?"

"Who cares?" Sunstreaker shrugs, reaching across Jazz for the stack of energon that the Special Ops mech had provided for them. "I'm just glad it was destroyed. That thing was hideous."

Bluestreak shakes his helm, laughter making his frame shake. "It was pretty bad. But not as bad as the one time Megatron's newest grand plan was to enslave the humans. Like human labor is faster or stronger than ours." Bluestreak giggles again, prodding Jazz in the side. "Can I have some more?" he asks, giving the mech his most innocent look.

"I think mebbe ya've had enough," Jazz says, but his words are completely overridden by Sideswipe's loud guffaw.

"Or," he says, vents heaving as he struggles to control himself. "Remember the time that Astrotrain and Blitzwing tried to take over the Decepticons?"

"What? Was old Screamer on vacation or something?" Blaster jokes, and he and Sideswipe clink energon cubes.

"Good one," the red twin chortles.

Sunstreaker shakes his helm. "Idiots," he mutters.

"I haven't had nearly enough!" Bluestreak argues, snuggling up to Jazz. "I only had one and everyone else had at least three and it's just not fair that you treat me like a youngling when I'm older than both of them!" He points at the twins accusingly. "Come on, Jazz. Just one more. _Please_?"

"We're celebratin', Jazz-bot," Blaster says, adding in his two creds. "What could it hurt?"

Jazz, surrendering under Bluestreak's big optics, hands over another cube. "Better volunteer to get him to a berth then."

"Not it!" the twins chorus at the same time, and then shift to glaring at each other.

"He's a clingy drunk!" Sunstreaker says.

"And if we're not allowed to interface him silly then it's no fun," Sideswipe adds.

Bluestreak pouts. "You guys are mean."

Blaster laughs. "Blue, by the end of the night, we're all gonna need an escort to berth."

"I'll drink to that," Jazz says, a grin curving his lips. "Slaggin' right."

***


	19. Sound of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, nameless gladiating bots  
> Universe: Bayverse, pre-2007  
> Rating: T  
> Description: The battle ring is the only time they feel alive, sparks perfectly in sync.

The roar of the crowd is loud enough that it rattles over Sideswipe's plating and through his spark chamber. He grins, leaping back to avoid the swipe of his opponent's claws. Too slow, mech.

Beside him, Sunstreaker is toying with his opponent. The larger, sturdier mech bristles with weaponry, but hasn't managed to score so much as a scratch on Sunstreaker's shiny finish.

This bout is ridiculous, so far below their skill level that Sideswipe wonders what their proprietor was thinking to schedule it. They're drawing things out just for the sake of the crowd.

Another skilled twist and Sideswipe dodges his opponent again, lazily ducking up behind the mech and slamming his palm into the mech's helm. The ring of metal on metal barely rises above the din and clamor of the cheering crowd. Another sharp jab of Sideswipe's servo into the mech's neck and he drops, twitching on the ground.

Sunstreaker skates around his own opponent, twin blades cutting a deadly swipe over the back of one leg. Energon spurts in a dull-blue fountain, mingling with the brighter magenta of cooling fluid. The mech goes down to one knee, his other leg useless.

The twins exchange a glance, the heat of battle rising in their circuits. The only time they feel alive, sparks perfectly in sync.

The cheers get louder, making Sideswipe's audials ring. The announcer says something he can't make out, but the rumble in the flooring explains much. Sideswipe turns, seeing the gates to either side of the ring rising, more opponents pouring through the openings.

More victims really.

Sideswipe laughs, flicking his wrist, letting his energon blade slide out of its sheath. Now this is a challenge. Beside him, Sunstreaker is silent, his expression set with deadly intent. Sideswipe can feel the pulse of his brother's spark, however. A perfect contrast, a perfect opposite, complimentary in all the best ways, pulsing the same desire to rend and destroy.

They move forward, together as one, ignoring their half-defeated opponents behind them. They'll finish them with the rest of the soon-to-be scrap roaring their direction.

Blaster fire erupts from the charging mechs. Sideswipe doesn't so much as flinch as it scores his plating. Instead he leaps upward, diving down into the middle of the tangle of mechs sent to slaughter. The first feel of his blade biting into foreign metal is music to his audials. And Sunstreaker is right behind him, a silent but lethal presence at his back. The way things are meant to be.

***


	20. Sneak-Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: JazzxBluestreak  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: dubcon, mild bondage, mechslash, tactile interfacing  
> Description: Jazz is not the only one who can be stealthy.

Getting the drop on Jazz is an art unto itself. Jazz is so fragging paranoid and his sensors are so finely turned that it is nearly impossible to surprise him. He also has an audial in all of the Ark's events so keeping secrets from him just doesn't happen.

But sometimes... sometimes Jazz can be distracted. By a shiny new album or a new Wheeljack invention or a Sideswipe prank or a Decepticon attack. And sometimes, Bluestreak shamelessly takes advantage of such a distraction. Sometimes he even orchestrates them.

Mirage is a great instructor in the art of stealth, even stealth without the aid of an electro-disruptor. And for the past six months, Bluestreak has let Mirage drill all the best pointers into his processors. It helps that he has doorwings capable of highly tuned sensory input. It helps that Sideswipe is more than willing to help him scheme.

It helps that nearly every bot in the Ark wants to see the tables turned on Jazz. For pure fun of course.

Today, Bluestreak is putting his plan into action. The timing is right, there's a little something to celebrate, and Jazz has no idea this is coming.

Blaster has given Jazz an all new mix of some kickin' tunes sure to make Jazz grin from audial to audial.

Sideswipe surprises him out of nowhere with a brand new batch of high grade, due for testing on Jazz's discerning palate.

And Wheeljack distracts with a bright and shiny, nigh undetectable new array of explosives sure to make any Special Ops mech giddy with destructive glee.

Jazz also believes, thanks to a very amused but not showing it Prowl, thinks Bluestreak's just been sent on a long-range patrol. Oh, how lonely he must be.

Bluestreak follows Jazz around, waiting for the perfect moment, a predator trailing his prey. It's hard. He's all but jittery with excitement, plating threatening to rattle noisily. His frame's heating out of anticipation. It ought to be a very good night.

It takes too long for Jazz to bebop his way back to their shared quarters, radiating glee for all his new goodies. Jazz inputs the code, juggling his precious shinies (his subspace must be full again), and beats at the door panel once or twice. It glitches sometimes.

The door opens with a cranky _shkthunk_ and Jazz hops inside, Bluestreak a silent, quick shadow behind him. The door shuts and locks while Jazz hums along with whatever tunes Blaster gave him. Oblivious to Bluestreak watching, lurking.

Jazz is careful as he sets out Sideswipe's volatile energon and Wheeljack's even more volatile explosives.

That is, of course, when Bluestreak strikes. A quick jab to the helm shorts out Jazz's optical feed and an even faster pulse of electromagnetics makes the rest of Jazz's sensory input go on the fritz. Blinded, disorientated, Jazz nevertheless is a formidable opponent.

Bluestreak, however, is prepared. He slaps a pair of stasis cuffs on Jazz's wrists and pins the saboteur between the desk and himself. He presses up against Jazz's back, the vibrations of his engine recognizable, and dips his head to nibble on a sensory horn.

"Gotcha," Bluestreak both purrs and transmits over a personal comm, knowing that Jazz's systems are still struggling to orient themselves. His glossa flicks over the thin plating of the sensory horn, the vibrations of his vocalizer carrying through the delicate metal.

Jazz stifles a moan, but relaxes into Bluestreak's embrace, helm tipping backward onto Bluestreak's shoulder. "Ya sneaky fragger," he says with a crackle of static.

"Of course." Bluestreak chuckles and lets his hands roam, dipping between mostly unreactive plating to the responsive wiring below, caressing them with nimble flicks of his fingers. This time Jazz does moan, arching into Bluestreak's touch. "I learned from the best."


	21. Offers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Tracks+Sunstreaker, implied SunstreakerxMirage  
> Universe: G1  
> Warnings: implied mechslash, some violence  
> Description: Tracks makes his move.

He must be suicidal. That's the only explanation Tracks has for intercepting Sunstreaker's inevitable punch to the wall. The frontliner is stronger, his fist impacting Tracks' palm with a sharp smack. It stings. But it's worth it.

Sunstreaker's energy field flares with surprise.

"You're going to mess up your finish if you do something like that," Tracks says, aiming for an easy grin.

Sunstreaker looks at him like he's never seen Tracks before. "What do you care?"

"Would be a waste," Tracks replies and lets his optics wander over Sunstreaker's frame knowing that the yellow mech would take it as a compliment. "Besides, what did that poor wall ever do to you?"

Sunstreaker drops his hand, shaking his helm. "Not the wall."

Tracks hazards a guess. "Mirage?"

Sunstreaker's answer lacks words, but the flaring of his energy field is answer enough. He and Mirage have been on-again, off-again since they all woke from stasis and their relationship is nothing short of turbulent.

"What was it this time?" Tracks asks.

There's a pause before Sunstreaker grits out, "Difference of opinion."

"On what?"

"Doesn't matter." Sunstreaker turns on a pede, apparently having reached his quota of polite interaction for the day. But he's still tense. Still bothered.

"Does," Tracks insists, sliding in Sunstreaker's path, stopping him from leaving. "You deserve better. Mirage will never get you."

Sunstreaker laughs, a noise of bitter static. "Forget who you're talking to, Towers reject?"

It's a defense mechanism. Tracks can take it. He's a big bot.

"Know who I'm looking at," he replies and gets closer, drops his vocal tones. "I know who's different than public opinion."

Sunstreaker tilts his chin upward. "What are you saying, Tracks?"

Tracks. His designation. It's a step up.

"Open your optics," Tracks says and pulls something from his subspace, something he's been saving. "Realize you have options." He hands it over to Sunstreaker, the expensive tin of wax one of the few he has leftover from Cybertron. "Comm me when you want some help applying that."

He walks off, leaving Sunstreaker staring after him, knowing that he's set the ball rolling. All that's left is to see if the pretty twin accepts his offer.


	22. Someone Like You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: MiragexSkyfire  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Mirage and Skyfire long for the same thing, though each goes by a different name.

Skyfire likes to recharge out under the stars as often as he can. Something about the confines of the Ark gets to him every once in a while. Maybe it's a flyer thing. Maybe it's that he's larger than everyone, forced to subspace most of his mass while in root made, and the Ark simply isn't big enough to contain him comfortably.

Mirage can't blame Skyfire for seeking the sky either. He can see the appeal in having the notion to see the galaxy, fooling himself into thinking the nearest dim star is Cybertron. He can almost imagine himself there, back home, in a time before there was war.

Skyfire watches the stars for a different reason. Mirage knows. He never asks, never pries. He doesn't have to.

It's a terribly broken world that Skyfire has onlined to. There's much he still has to mourn. The death of their home, of hundreds of mechs he probably knew and thousands more that he didn't, and the shattering of a much beloved friendship.

Mirage understands. The rest of the Ark doesn't, or can't, but Mirage does.

Missing Starscream, or the Seeker Starscream used to be, doesn't make Skyfire a Decepticon sympathizer any more than Mirage's longing for the Cybertron of old makes him a traitor.

It's why Mirage is here, lying next to Skyfire on the cold, rocky ground outside the volcano. He could be in his shared quarters with Tracks, lounging on a warm berth. But he'd rather be here with Skyfire. With a mech who understands. Who can share his grief.

"Will we ever be able to return?" Skyfire asks, words staticky with longing.

Mirage leans his helm on the shuttle's shoulder. "Of course."

"It won't be the same." Skyfire's free hand rubs at his abdominal plating, which is still scored by laser fire from the earlier battle. By Starscream. "It can't ever be the same."

Mirage reaches over, gently replacing Skyfire's hand with his own, stroking over the damaged plating. Skyfire can't feel it in all likelihood, but the pain here isn't physical. It isn't a matter of scorched sensors.

"No," Mirage agrees, his spark keening with grief. "We can only make do with what we have."

Skyfire takes his hand, pulling it toward his mouth, nuzzling the delicate fingertips. "Is this making do?"

Mirage smiles, his energy field humming with something approaching content. "It's something altogether new." He pauses. "I enjoy it."

The shuttle's plating vibrates, a tangible sign of his own pleasure. "Good."

Somewhere lost in the universe, Cybertron drifts endlessly. Here on Earth, however, Mirage is starting to feel that he's no longer suffering the same, lonely fate.


	23. Of Birthdays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Will Lennox, Ironhide, mentions of Annabelle  
> Universe: Bayverse, post-RoTF  
> Description: Ironhide doesn't understand the purpose of a birthday celebration.

"I don't get it."

Will frowns. "I know you've got access to the internet."

"Isn't what I mean, Lennox," Ironhide replies churlishly. "Your sparkling – your infant – isn't even mature enough to remember this, much less understand."

"Your point?"

The Topkick shudders around him, the Cybertronian version of an aggravated sigh. "All this effort. Cake. Balloons. Presents. Invitations. Why bother?"

For a long moment, Will is silent. How can he answer this in such a way for Ironhide to understand? How can he put his maelstrom of emotions into mere words?

"When Annabelle was born, do you know where I was?" Will asks, fingers drumming across the steering wheel.

"Judging by your military service record-"

Will doesn't even want to know how easy it is for the Cybertronians to hack into government databases. "Qatar," he finishes before Ironhide can. "I missed my daughter being born. When she opened her eyes for the first time, I wasn't there to hold her."

The silence in Ironhide's cab is more than a little heavy.

"She might not remember, but I will," he continues. "The first of many things I hope to see. Surrounded by friends and family, reminding me what I'm out there fighting for."

He glances at the passenger seat and the neat piles of delicately wrapped gifts. At the beautiful cake and the large beribboned teddy bear.

"This is more for me than for her, really. In the end."

"I see." Ironhide's rumbling vocals hold a note of apology as though his confusion were an insult to Will. "Family-"

"Includes you," Will says firmly, leaving no room for argument. "You saved my life. That makes us brothers. That's what matters."

"Humans have a unique way of seeing things," Ironhide rumbles, and then pauses. "I am honored, Will Lennox."

"Just Will."

"Of course." The Topkick's engine revs, speed ticking upward to the low seventies. "We'd better hurry. We can't be late for her birthday."

Will smiles.


	24. Puzzle Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: SideswipexSunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: twincest, dark themes, tactile  
> Description: There's no greater ecstasy, no greater peace, than when they are together.

It's like trying to put a puzzle piece into a spot where it obviously doesn't belong. The edges don't match. The ridges and grooves conflict. The picture might seem to fit, if one squints and pretends, but overall, the image just isn't right.

Merging with anyone other than Sideswipe is a lot like a puzzle with the wrong piece. They are half of the same spark, somehow two separate beings, powered by half of a spark. It's illogical. It's rare.

The rules don't apply to them. It's something few Cybertronians can understand. Sunstreaker himself can't even put it into words.

He's tried. He's berthed as many bots as would take him, those enticed by his appearance or emboldened by the act of touching the untouchable. None of them ever fit. Some of them were downright uncomfortable to the point of pain. Like trying to force two opposing magnets together.

In the end, Sunstreaker comes back to Sideswipe and their shared quarters and their shared berth, recharging so that they face each other, sparks thrumming and pulsing, eager to merge again. But they have to be careful. Too deep and they won't be able to separate.

Every one assumes they are automatically bonded due to the nature of their sparks. It's true and it's not true. If they were truly bonded, they wouldn't be separate anymore. They wouldn't be Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. They'd be some amalgam of the two that somehow inhabits two separate frames. Or maybe in the end one of the frames would turn to a grey husk, leaving both of them trapped in the other.

Sunstreaker doesn't care to find out what the end result would be. It's not the sort of thing a medic could fix, not even Ratchet.

And there's nothing – absolutely nothing – like those shallow merges with Sideswipe. The pleasure that electrifies Sunstreaker's systems, that can knock him offline for joors. That makes him tingle for orns afterward.

There's nothing like seeing Sideswipe writhe beneath him, optics practically white, sparks leaping over his plating. Or feeling Sideswipe above him, mercilessly driving him to a sharper overload, the sound of their overworked fans echoing in the dark of their quarters. Or the counter-balancing pulse of their sparks, synchronizing, harmonizing in such a way that the pleasure exchange is seamless. Perfect. Processor-shattering.

Not even a near-core merge with the mechs most tolerable to their half-sparks comes close.

There's no greater ecstasy, no greater peace, than when they are together. Merging. Fighting. Killing. Playing around with other bots for a little fun and games.

It's probably a bit twisted, even for Cybertronians, but Sunstreaker doesn't care. Sideswipe is the other half of his spark in more ways than science can describe. Nothing can change that fact. They're meant to be together as much as they are meant to be apart. Forever bound, forever divided.


	25. Jazz, Babysitter Extraordinaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: BlasterxSoundwave, Jazz, cassettes  
> Universe: G1, post-series AU  
> Description: Quiet time doesn't exist with the amount of cassettes they have. Not anymore.

Between the two of them, they have ten cassettes. If one wants to be technical about it, that equates to ten children, a third of them equivalent to human teenagers.

Quiet time, in other words, does not exist. Nor does private time. Or interfacing time. A fact which Blaster much laments. He likes interfacing. He especially likes interfacing Soundwave.

The children do not make this easy.

Not the eldest, Ravage, who creeps around with all the silence of his alt-mode's namesake. He likes to crawl around the vents, sneak into places he shouldn't be, just to prove he can.

Not their second eldest, the twins Eject and Rewind who can be found at all hours playing the television as loud as possible, having soaked up human entertainment as though they were kremzeeks.

Not their third eldest, the twins Frenzy and Rumble, who share obvious delight in testing each other for weaknesses. It looks like down and out brawling, but of course Blaster and Soundwave know to call it sparring. Prowl and Red Alert, however, do not approve.

Steeljaw doesn't have Ravage's tendency to be sneaky, instead, he likes to be obvious about it. Jumping out, startling innocent bots taking a stroll around the city. And the fact that he can, more often than not, encourage Ramhorn to give him a paw makes for two mischievous cassettes that the night patrol often drag back to Blaster by the scruff.

Laserbeak and Buzzsaw are the best behaved of the bunch. Save for Buzzsaw's tendency to leave energon dustlets around everywhere and Laserbeak's strange inclination, as of late, to build a nest wherever she slag well pleases.

Ratbat is spoiled. As the youngest, he is completely and utterly spoiled by Soundwave much to Blaster's consternation. Spoiling has led to clinging so it's a rare day indeed when Blaster can drag his partner away from their children for some special, alone time.

Like today. Right now as a matter of fact. They've hired a babysitter, or what approximates one considering the dearth of available bots around, and sent out the elder cassettes on "official duties." In other words, here's a cred, go see a movie or something. Just begone!

Now here they are. Alone. Blaster stares at Soundwave, who's staring back at him, expression as inscrutable as ever. And well... it's awkward. Blaster's feeling twitchy. His sensors responding on a hair-trigger, anticipating another embarrassing ping from Red Alert about their wayward children, or just waiting for the ball to drop.

"Solitude achieved," Soundwave says, a hint of impatience in his vocals.

Blaster gives his mech a surly look. "I'm aware of that." His HUD pings him, a reminder that he hasn't had sufficient recharge since, well, forever. Blaster pretty much ignores those warnings on automatic anymore. "On to the berth with ya then."

Soundwave makes a pretty good approximation of a snort, amusement hiding behind it, and hitches himself up onto their overlarge berth. There's a twinkle of mischief in his visor and Blaster watches his mech warily. Just what is the sneaky bot up to?

Blaster climbs onto the berth beside his partner, feeling a fatigue in his struts that makes him feel about Kup's age and not a millennium younger. He ventilates loudly, the berth feeling so fragging comfortable. He settles next to Soundwave, both of them propped up against the wall and each other, and unspools a cable, offering it to his partner.

"This is what we've been reduced ta," Blaster remarks dryly. "No romance. No passion. Just quick 'nd dirty so we can get to th' good stuff."

Soundwave chuckles in that staticky way of his that used to be creepy. "Query: good stuff?" he repeats, taking Blaster's cable and offering his own.

"Energon and recharge," Blaster replies, deadpan, and seamlessly plugs Soundwave into his port, feeling the very moment his partner does the same.

It speaks of their lengthy commitment how easily their systems sync together, the slow idle stream of transmitted sensation coming across within a moment. Blaster's cooling fans kick on with a quiet whirr and he relaxes, plating loosening as the familiar opening chords of their interface trickle through him.

Soundwave, he notices, is as tired as himself. Both of them are strapped for recharge and defrag time along with everything else.

"Multiple cassettes: Blaster's idea," Soundwave points out as he throws an arm over Blaster's shoulder, tugging the red mech into his embrace.

Blaster lightly slaps Soundwave's thigh. "Sure. Blame it on me now. You were the one goading me in the first place." A shudder creeps down his backstrut as stronger pulses of pleasure filter through their connection. Mmm, that's nice.

A loud crash from the next room over startles Blaster so badly he almost jerks Soundwave's cable out of his port which would have been very uncomfortable. "What the frag?"

"Cassettes to blame?"

Blaster sighs, reluctantly disconnecting them. "Got no choice but ta find out." He doesn't miss the spike of irritation in his partner's field.

Together, they leave their shared quarters, the door swishing open with an imagined hiss of annoyance. Down the hallway is a raucous riot of noise that blasts over their audials. Blaster distinctly hears Frenzy and Eject and someone else, someone like-

"Jazz!"

So much for their babysitter. And the saboteur doesn't look the least bit chagrined at all.

No more quiet time tonight. Fraggit.


	26. Science is Tricky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: RatchetxWheeljack, First Aid, Jazz, Ironhide  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Ratchet has an oops. Wheeljack is very amused.

"Ratch." A wealth of amusement-concern punctuates his designation.

"Not. One. Word."

Wheeljack grins, flashing bright colors at him. "Don't worry. I promise not to tease you. Much."

Ratchet groans, offlining his optics, and holding back on the series of scans his coding demands he run. "How bad is it?"

"Hmm." He can barely detect the presence of fingers on his plating. "You managed to fuse your dermal layer a bit. Your right hand's scrap." There's a noise of muffled chuckling. "And I bet your dignity's taken a beating, too."

Ratchet unshutters his optics to pin his partner with a glare usually reserved for miscreant Lamborghinis. "This is all your fault."

"Not this time," Wheeljack all but sings.

The inventor is far, far too smug. Ratchet refuses to admit his own embarrassment. He also refuses to acknowledge the fact that they've drawn a crowd. Bots eager for a glimpse of more destruction.

"You're bad luck," Ratchet grouses and makes a tentative stab at movement. Several gears shriek in protest.

Wheeljack pats him on an undamaged shoulder. "Science is tricky, isn't it?"

"All right, Jack, enough gloating," First Aid says primly, finally arriving on scene after pushing his way through the crowd of amused Autobots. "Move so I can get to my patient."

"I'm not gloating," the scientist says as he moves to Ratchet's other side, making room for First Aid to kneel next to the prone medic.

"Yes, you are," Ratchet retorts churlishly.

Grinning, Wheeljack's battle mask slots back as he leans over for a quick, reassuring kiss. "I don't hold it against you."

"Y'know," Jazz says from somewhere in the crowd hovering over Ratchet. "Y'hear about bots taking on the characteristics of their spouses, but this is a bit much, Ratch."

Laughter ripples through the gathered mechs.

Wheeljack preens. "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, Jazz."

More laughter.

"I will reformat you all soon as I'm fixed, see if I don't!" Ratchet roars, threatening. He'd shake a fist at them, but frankly, none of his limbs are wanting to respond properly. The explosion must have knocked out a few circuits.

Ironhide and Wheeljack both crouch to lift Ratchet off the floor, since his pedes are incapable of supporting himself.

"Empty threats, Ratch. Empty threats," Ironhide says with a rumbly laugh.

"Don't worry," First Aid adds, patting Ratchet on his shoulder. "I'll get you fixed up as soon as possible."

Wheeljack makes a noise not unlike a smothered laugh.

"Not one word," Ratchet warns his smug partner. "Not one more word."


	27. Stutter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: JazzxProwl  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Lots of love to go around and only one Jazz.

Prowl is contemplating recharge over a cube of spiced energon when someone pings his door. It's a bit late for casual visitors.

Curious, Prowl opens his door, orbital ridges lifting in surprise. "Jazz," he greets as the TiC lounges indolently in his doorway. "What a pleasant surprise."

"C'mon, Prowler. It's Tuesday," Jazz murmurs, tilting his helm just so, visor glinting at Prowl in the lowlight of the hall.

Prowl pauses. "I... don't follow your logic." There's nothing special about Tuesday as far as he's aware.

Jazz's lipplates curl in a slow smile. "Tuesdays are for the quiet ones," he purrs and presses forward, Prowl backing into his quarters without truly understanding why he's doing so.

"I..." Prowl trails off as the circuits finally connect. "You have a schedule?"

Jazz's hand reaches out, fingers splaying over Prowl's chestplate. "Sorta." He laughs as he caresses a headlight. "Lots of love to go around and only one Jazz. If ya know what I mean."

"You... I can't..." Prowl splutters, unable to form a coherent statement. A schedule? Is Jazz serious or is this just another case of his questionable sense of humor?

Jazz's energy field flares outward in a tingling invitation. "You don't want to?"

Any attempt at clinging to composure eradicates itself at the noise of Prowl's cooling fans kicking on with a roar. "I said nothing of the sort," Prowl replies smoothly as his aft collides with his berth.

Jazz smirks. "You haven't said much at all, Prowler," he teases, crowding Prowl against the berth, glossa sliding teasingly over his lipplates. "Don't let me break your processor. Ratchet'll have my tailpipe and ream me a new exhaust."

"For you that's hardly a punishment," Prowl says wryly, placing his hands on Jazz's hips and tugging the saboteur closer. He doesn't know a single mech who could turn away an eager Jazz. Not even himself. "Hedonist that you are."

"Guilty as charged." Jazz's knee rises up, stroking an electrifying path across the insides of Prowl's leg. "What do ya say, Prowler? Wanna share a berth tonight? I got magna cuffs in my subspace."

Heat flares through Prowl's frame. "Only if I can use them on you." It would do the feisty saboteur some good, Prowl thinks.

Jazz laughs. "I'd be offended if you didn't."

Ever so diligent, Prowl prudently sends a message to Prime that he'll be late for his shift tomorrow. Best to be prepared.


	28. The Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: SideswipexSunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Warnings: twincest  
> Description: Sunstreaker's fast, but Sideswipe's faster.

Sunstreaker's fast, but Sideswipe's faster. It's by a bare margin, but just enough to keep Sideswipe ahead of his twin, speeding down the open road with the wind roaring over him and setting his sensory net aflame.

He can feel Sunstreaker chasing him down, feet from his bumper, tires screeching over concrete. Sideswipe is giddy with excitement. Giddy and something else, something a lot like arousal that's making his engine growl and thrum. He puts on another burst of speed, taunting, daring his brother to follow.

Catch me if ya can, his speed says.

He's long since dismissed every one of Prowl's furious comms to slow down and obey human traffic laws. He's sure that both he and Sunstreaker are going to be in the brig for a month by the time they get back. But it's worth it. Frag yes, it'll be worth it.

Sideswipe takes a corner too hard and nearly loses control, skidding off the pavement and into the open plain. He kicks up dust into the air, refusing to let himself get caught so easily. If he could just make it to that rock formation, they'll at least be out of plain sight.

Behind him, Sunstreaker executes a perfect swerve and takes off after him, the rumble of his engine enough to make Sideswipe's systems send more charge crackling through him. Anticipation throbs through his spark, hot and heavy. The uneven landscape jars his undercarriage. He's losing speed.

Sideswipe's fast, but Sunstreaker's heavier. He's got better traction. And for once, he doesn't even care about his paintjob. If the irritation coming across their link is any indication, Sideswipe's in for it when he finally gets caught. Payback for the dirt.

Sideswipe can't wait.

"Getting slower in your old age, Sunny!" he calls out, just because he's not happy if he's not pissing his brother off.

"You can't run forever," Sunstreaker replies, tone cool but unable to hide the anticipation in his energy field either.

Sideswipe laughs, gun his engine, only to yelp when a dry bush appears in front of him. He swerves to avoid, right tire catching on a small pit in the landscape, and gets sent flying. Whoops.

Instinct forces him into root mode and battle agility puts him back on his pedes before he tumbles head over heels and finally lands in a sprawl on his back, jarred but unharmed. In a history of wipeouts, that one hardly counts as a three.

Dazed, he has maybe a second to think about scrambling back to his pedes to keep the chase going before he hears the unmistakable growl of a high performance engine. And then the sun is blocked out by a gleaming yellow frame and Sideswipe is pinned.

"You!" Sunstreaker huffs, optics a bright streak of arousal-irritation-concern.

Sideswipe laughs and tries to roll out from under Sunstreaker, but as stated before, Sunstreaker's heavier. And faster when his processor's not just been jarred by a wipeout. He grabs Sideswipe's wrists, slamming them down into the dirt, dropping the force of his weight down on Sideswipe's chassis.

"Stay," Sunstreaker says, exventing loudly, his plating vibrating from amped up charge, his energy field fluctuating with need.

Sideswipe grins and shoves a hard pulse of want-now-need at his brother, bucking up to slide plating against plating in delicious friction. "Not going anywhere," he promises. "C'mon, Sunny."

"Don't call me that," his twin replies and leans closer, their faces in tantalizing proximity. "And no, it's not going to be that easy. You're going to have to beg for it."

Oh, boy. It's going to be a long day. Sideswipe's going to love every minute of it.


	29. Mechasexual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: Spike, Raoul  
> Description: In which Spike questions his sexuality and Raoul spittakes.

"How would I know if I'm gay?"

Cola suddenly splatters the tabletop. Wow. That's the first time Spike's ever seen a real spit-take. He didn't think it actually happened outside of the movies.

Raoul wipes his mouth, glaring at Spike. "What?" he demands with a throat-clearing cough. "How the hell should I know?"

Spike gives him a long look, arching an eyebrow. "Don't you have gaydar or something?"

Oh, look. There goes more cola.

"Gaydar!" Raoul splutters. And the tips of his ears turn red. It's kinda cute.

Spike leans his chin on his palm, staring at the other teen. "What kind of gay man are you if you don't know what gaydar is?"

"Gay!" Raoul starts choking on what appears to be both his cola and his own breath.

He coughs, one hand waving indignantly through the air as he sets his cola bottle on the table.

"I'm not!" Raoul manages with another glare, though watery-eyed this time. "I'm not... _Chicas_ , Spike, _chicas_! I like them. Why would you...?" He shakes his head, coughs a few more times.

Spike shrugs, more than a little amused by Raoul's over the top reaction. "Everyone thinks it." Everyone, of course, meaning the Autobots because right now, they are the entire extent of Spike's social circle including Chip and Carly and of course, Raoul. "You and Tracks-"

"-are friends!" Raoul yells, voice reaching an unfortunate pitch as his hands flap through the air. "Just friends!"

To paraphrase Shakespeare, the gentleman doth protest too much.

"Besides!" Raoul continues, pointing a firm, defiant finger at Spike. "You got no room to talk, _amigo_. Tracks has told me all about you and the Volkswagen."

He gives the other teen a long look. "That would be another case of just friends, Raoul. Besides, he's a 'bot and I'm human. Would never work."

Raoul snorts, grabs his cola and takes a long swallow of it, managing not to lose any this time. "Yeah, tell that to Astoria."

Spike grins. "Poor Powerglide."

"Don't feel sorry for him, _amigo_. What I hear? He likes the attention."

Both teens chuckle at that. Powerglide really is a mech after attention, big old drama flier that he is. But then the laughter trails off and Spike's reminded of the reason he sought out Raoul for this little one-on-one conversation.

"Seriously, Spike," Raoul says, leaning on the table. "What makes you come out and ask me a weird question like that?"

He shrugs, feeling his ears burn on the tips. "Just wondering."

"You ever kissed a dude?"

Spike sinks in his chair. "No."

"Thought about kissing a dude?"

He sinks even further, mumbling a soft, "No."

Raoul shakes his head and sits back, "Then if you are gay, you are the worst gay man ever. Chill, _amigo_. Looks like it's still the _chicas_ for you."

Now nearly hidden beneath the table, Spike manages a smile. Good to know he supposes, but what does that say about his attraction to Jazz?


	30. Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker  
> Description: Sunstreaker has a favorite.

* * *

Sideswipe smiles a lot.

He has a grin for every occasion. A smirk for when he's plotting something nefarious. A leer for the fortunate mech next on his conquest list. A simper for the minibots or Ratchet on the warpath. He beams when he's happy or pleased with himself.

He smiles at everyone for any reason. There's not a single individual on the Ark that Sideswipe doesn't like, though there are a few that can be irritating. He's everyone's friend.

It comes easily to Sideswipe. The way his optics sparkle. The tilt of his helm. The curve of his mouth components. The friendly ripple in his energy field.

He smiles brightly. Boldly. Shyly. Coyly.

He teases and incites, encourages and apologizes.

Sideswipe's smile, in all its many forms, will always be a thing of beauty to Sunstreaker.

Each one is like a new and different side of his twin. They are part of the same whole but that doesn't mean Sunstreaker knows everything about his brother. They both have their secrets, things that they keep to themselves, buried in partitioned portions of their memory or databanks.

Sunstreaker has a datapad full of nothing but sketches of Sideswipe's smiles, usually in whatever context they are given.

His favorite one, though, is the smile Sideswipe gives when he thinks no one is watching.

Sunstreaker's caught him several times, tightening his end of the bond so Sideswipe doesn't know he's there, standing in the shadows of the rec room, watching Sideswipe watch the Autobots.

Sometimes, their fellow 'Bots aren't doing anything more than crowding around the vidscreen for the next episode of _As the Kitchen Sinks_. Usually, Sideswipe would be right up there with them, jostling for space in the front.

Sometimes, though, he hangs back and just watches the Autobots instead of the show. And in turn, Sunstreaker watches him.

The Autobots are the closest thing the twins have to a family. And his smile is fond, indulgent. It's soft around the edges, completely erasing the devilish aura that usually surrounds Sideswipe.

And sometimes, Sunstreaker onlines from recharge, activating a tertiary optical sensor to see Sideswipe watching over him in recharge. His optics are fond then, too. One hand lightly strokes Sunstreaker's plating, their bond brimming with affectionate feelings. Sunstreaker pretends to still be deep in recharge so he can capture that image, later translate it to his sketchpad.

It's the smile no one else sees, that makes Sunstreaker's spark do an odd flip inside its chamber, and he cherishes each glimpse of that illusive expression. Despite Sideswipe's noise and bluster and teasing and attitude, that smile is everything that makes up Sideswipe's spark. And Sunstreaker loves him for it.


	31. Catch Me If You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1, post-war  
> Characters: Hound, Ravage, Jazz, Smokescreen, Prowl, Cliffjumper  
> Description: New partners bring new challenges.

Hound roared as he skittered around a corner, narrowly avoiding a collision with Jazz.

"Sorry!" he gasped, catching his balance and scrabbling back into a run.

Jazz's laughter followed him down the hall. "Good luck!"

Could've helped, Hound grumbled to himself.

But no, that wasn't how this game was played. He was on his own.

His sensors bleeped. Hound took another turn, his target just ahead of him but moving fast. Four legs were faster than two. Wheels even more so, but Hound didn't dare transform.

He could get away with running through the halls but Prowl would put him on cleaning duty for a month if he left tire treads on the floor again.

Hound called up a schematic of the Ark. There. A short cut. Head off his target without having to chase. Perfect.

Hound skidded to a halt, dove into a small byway, and twisted to avoid Smokescreen, who wisely flattened his doorwings in the nick of time.

"Three to one odds!" Smokescreen shouted at him with a large grin.

No help there either.

Hound emerged into another corridor, backtracked a bit, ducked through the rec room and exited out the other side, attracting a sizable crowd in the process. His sensors zeroed in on his target, coming round the corner.

Hound pounced.

"Gotcha!"

The resulting clash of metal on metal could be heard seven hallways over in the medbay. Ratchet was probably scowling.

Hound grinned, victorious.

In his arms was a hissing, squirming bundle of disgruntled metal feline.

"Hey! Watch the claws!" Hound protested as cybertronium-sharp talons tore four gashes in his paint.

Ravage snarled, optics promising dire retribution.

A round of applause began from their gathered audience. Somewhere, at the back of the crowd, Smokescreen was collecting his winnings.

"Bath time again, I presume?" Prowl's dry tone made Hound grin sheepishly.

"And I thought Spike was joking," Hound replied.

"This from the mech happy to spend his day in mud pits," Cliffjumper teased. "Someone should make _you_ take a bath."

Laughter rounded out the applause.

"Ha, ha." Hound struggled to keep his grip on the feisty, former cassette. "A little help?"

Amazing how quick the Autobots could scatter.

Their absence, however, garnered an immediate cessation of hostilities.

Hound sighed. "You do this on purpose, don't you?"

Ravage grinned toothily, leaping out of Hound's embrace and making a show of stretching his back strut. "Got to keep you on your toes somehow."

Hound shook his helm. His brand new partner's been a challenge since day one.

"C'mon, you. Time for a bath."

Ravage laughed. "You first."


	32. Suppliers and Buyers and Thieves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: Swindle, Chop Shop  
> Description: Commercial tight rope walking, thy name is Chop Shop.

"Very nice," Swindle said as he eyed the array of assorted items his newest supplier/buyer had brought him.

The Insecticon clicked his mandibular array. "Thanks," he replied, digits rapping on the table top. "What do I get for it?"

Swindle rubbed his chin, contemplatively. "Let me check my stocks."

He turned, heading into a small back room that he'd carved out for his own use. Onslaught allowed it because, and Swindle quoted, _"I don't give a frag what you do, just don't get caught."_

Swindle dug through a pile of purposefully unorganized mess for a datapad with a cracked screen, gouged interface, and blackened on the edges. In short, it looked completely busted and therefore useless.

Looks could be deceiving.

Swindle powered up the datapad using a series of key presses and wire tweaking and left the room, returning back to where he left Chop Shop.

"Let's see," he said, pulling up his requisitions log and comparing it to Chop Shop's offerings.

Wait a klik.

Weren't there three transistors earlier? And Swindle could have sworn there was a portable solar collector, too.

"Uh..."

"It's good stuff," Chop Shop said with a fanged grin. "But not really above the line so maybe you should be quick?"

Right.

Suspicious, Swindle decided it was in his best interest not to ask. He could be wrong and it would be bad for business if he admitted to not paying attention.

"Hmm. I do need all of those power cells. A certain mech has promised me some high grade in exchange for a stock of that exact grenade." He pondered his list. "And Onslaught demanded a transwarp generator just last week."

A generator, by the way, which was no longer on the counter in front of him. And the last couple of transistors were now gone.

"Great!" Chop Shop said with bright enthusiasm. "What'll ya give me?"

Swindle stared at the Insecticon. Something wasn't right here. There was no way he was mistaken twice in a row.

"Where's the transwarp generator?"

"The what?" Chop Shop tilted his helm, confusion writ into his energy field.

Swindle stared at Chop Shop, who looked at him with such innocence, Swindle might have been standing in front of an Autobot. The Insecticon's talons were no longer visible on the counter, instead tucked behind his back.

"The generator." Swindle set his datapad down and leaned on the counter. "It was here. Two kliks ago."

"No, it wasn't."

Swindle cycled down his optics and circled around the counter, approaching Chop Shop. The Insecticon was much larger than him but Swindle tried not to focus on that point. He had Vortex on speed dial. Everyone was afraid of Vortex.

"Are you trying to pull one over on me?" Swindle asked, attempting to peer behind Chop Shop with limited success.

Chop Shop turned with Swindle, keeping his talons behind his back. "Pull one over?" He tilted his helm. "I'm just trying to sell some stuff. Plain and simple."

Stuff that kept disappearing! Swindle didn't fall off the stock shuttle yesterday! Chop Shop was messing with the wrong requisitions master.

He backed Chop Shop away from the counter. "Oh yeah? Where's the stuff?" Swindle demanded, tossing a servo toward the counter.

Which looked emptier than it had before. Swindle stopped and stared. The only thing left on the counter was a sad-looking blaster that was out of date three millennia ago.

Anger broiled inside of him. "And where's my datapad!"

Chop Shop lowered his helm, radiating guilt.

Swindle's engine revved. "Did you take it?"

No response.

Swindle ground his denta and shoved his servo toward Chop Shop, snapping his digits. "Give it. Now." He surprised himself with his own courage. The Insecticon could squash him in half an astrosecond.

But Chop Shop just drooped his shoulders and dug the datapad out of his subspace, handing it over.

As he did so, several things tumbled out of an obviously crammed subspace, including the transwarp generator, the power cells, and all of the transistors.

Unbelievable!

Swindle's jaw dropped. "Did you just steal from yourself?" And, also, from Swindle, too but he was too shocked by Chop Shop's gall to get angry. In fact, he found himself amused.

"No...?"

Swindle covered his optics with his palm. He subspaced his datapad. "My friend," he said, attempting to sling an arm over Chop Shop's shoulder, but being too short, only managed to snag the Insecticon's elbow. "You need a few lessons in this business. And I'd be happy to provide them. For a small fee of course."

The sound of metal hitting metal reverberated through the small room. Swindle looked down, watching the stylus from his datapad hit the ground and then roll across the floor, bumping up against his pede. Apparently, Chop Shop had taken that as well.

Swindle shook his helm. "We'll start with rule number one," he said, and led his newest partner in crime from the room.


	33. Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: Bayverse  
> Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Prowl, Ratchet  
> Description: Rules. They're more like guidelines.

Their comms bleeped at precisely 6:03pm, when they were three minutes late for their shift.

Sideswipe looked at Sunstreaker who ignored him in favor of attacking a splotch on his armor.

"Don't worry," Sideswipe said, leaning back on their berth with his arms locked behind his helm. "I'll get it."

He switched to his comm, making certain to broadcast it aloud so Sunsteaker could listen in and comment if he pleased. He also responded aloud, to make it easier for Sunstreaker to not miss a single, amusing detail.

"Yes?" Sideswipe used his most saccharine tone, interspersed with underlying glyphs of wide-opticked innocence.

"Are you injured?" asked Ratchet, rather hostile at that, and certainly not the officer Sideswipe would have expected.

Well. Two commanding officers with one prank. Even better.

Sideswipe grinned. "Not to my knowledge. Sunny, what about you?"

"I'll have no part of this," his twin replied. "And don't call me that."

"Nope," Sideswipe said to Ratchet. "All's well here. How are you?"

Ratchet growled.

Prowl intervened. "You did receive your schedule for this week, correct?"

"It's on our wall," Sideswipe said, glancing at the huge piece of paper heavily pockmarked from being used as target practice.

"Then I will be seeing you and your brother on the tarmac in two minutes."

"Actually," Sideswipe said before Prowl could end the comm and consider the situation resolved. "You won't."

Prowl's frosty glare could not be seen but Sideswipe could frag well feel it. "And why not?"

"You're going to get us slagged," Sunstreaker muttered, subvocally, so that their superior officers could not hear.

"Have a little faith, brother mine," Sideswipe retorted, equally subvocal.

He checked his chronometer. Just about time. Sixty more seconds. Need to stall Prowl just a little more.

"Because," Sideswipe replied. "We're pirates."

"What?" Prowl said with a hint of exasperation. "No. Nevermind. Either show up for your shifts or I will send someone to escort you to the brig."

"Since when do we have a brig?" Sunstreaker wondered aloud.

Thirty seconds...

"Good point!" Sideswipe said with a flash of amusement. "We don't have a brig, Prowl."

"Then I'll turn you over to Ratchet's tender mercies."

"Ooo. Scary." Sideswipe crossed one wheeled pede over the other, idly watching the tire spin.

"I don't appreciate being used as a threat, Prowl."

Ten seconds...

Sideswipe grinned, positively giddy.

Prowl ex-vented loudly. "Sideswipe."

"Nope," Sideswipe sang. "It's against our moral code. As pirates. Guidelines really, you know."

"You're what?"

Right on cue, the basewide PA clicked on, a jaunty tune crackling through the speakers.

_"We are the pirates who don't do anything. We just stay at home and lie around. And if you ask us to do anything. We'll just tell you... we don't do anything."_

Sideswipe snickered, his spark surging with amusement as the song continued. "That's what."

He cut off the comm as Prowl sputtered and Ratchet growled again.

Sunstreaker shook his helm. "Sometimes, I wish I was an only spark."

"Your life would be boring without me," Sideswipe reassured his brother, and happily sang along as the song cycled back to the chorus.

Bonus Scene

Prowl gritted his denta, the annoyingly addictive tune stuck on repeat. And apparently Blaster was having a difficult time cutting off the loop.

"You have to give him credit for creativity," Ratchet said.

"He'll see how creative I am when they're on punishment duty for a month," Prowl snarled, doorwings hiked high with aggravation.

"Punish Samuel, too, while you're at it."

"Why?"

"He's the one who gave them the DVDs." Ratchet paused. "You're lucky he didn't serenade you with _Barbara Manatee_."

Prowl's optics fritzed. "What?"


	34. Double Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: TFP, season two  
> Characters: Autobot Ensemble, Agent Fowler, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe  
> Description: Fowler's worst nightmare is not, in fact, Decepticon in nature.

"Speeding. Reckless driving. Online gambling. Racing. Illegal parking. Theft. And failure to stop for a blue light." A hand slams down on top of a desk with an echoing thud. The papers beneath said hand give off a damning crinkle.

"And that, Prime, only covers the last two weeks," Fowler adds with a hiss of fury. "I've seen more paperwork from those two terrors than from every Decepticon encountered in the past three years combined!"

Fowler's shout echoes through main ops.

Optimus sighs. "I do apologize, Agent Fowler. Rest assured that they will be dealt with appropriately." He gestures to the screen, which has been divided, one half displaying the grinning faces of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.

Well, Sideswipe is grinning. Sunstreaker might be better described as sneering.

"I'd be happier if you shipped them off planet," the government agent retorts with no small measure of irritation.

Optimus feels a twitch develop in his left orbital ridge. "Be that as it may, we currently do not have such an option."

"Then you'd better figure out something," Fowler all but snarls, hands planted firmly on his desk. "Because if I catch those two hooligans so much as switching lanes without proper signaling, I'll have them impounded. Fowler, out."

The screen cuts out with a sharp snap. The console then beeps the familiar tones of a received message, no doubt a copy of every single instance of law-breaking the twins have acquired.

"All of that in just two weeks?" Bulkhead comments, his tones stretching somewhere between awe and amusement. "It must be a record."

"And we thought Smokescreen was bad," Arcee adds with a pointed look at said once-new-recruit-now-rather-seasoned.

Optimus pinches his olfactory sensor, a habit he's recently acquired from Jack. "While I am grateful for the reinforcements Prowl sent, I wish he could have provided some mechs who aren't quite so-"

"Bothersome?" Arcee supplies before Optimus can find the proper descriptor.

"Arrogant?" Smokescreen suggests though he's hardly one to talk.

"Exhausting?" Ratchet growls with a glare toward a piece of mangled equipment that, for once, had not been Bulkhead's fault.

Bumblebee shrugs, lifting his hands. "Obnoxious?" he beeps at them.

"Glitched?" Bulkhead adds though the curve of his lipplate is just visible behind the lip of his mouthguard. He's more amused than annoyed.

Optimus' shoulders sink. "I was going to say insubordinate."

Part of him strongly suspects that Prowl had sent the twins to him not as a matter of necessity, but as a matter of vengeance. Mech can hold a grudge like no one's business.

"Always the diplomat," Ratchet says with a snort, rolling his optics.

Optimus ex-vents with a telltale rattle in his vents. "I will speak with them at once." He turns, heading for the corridor leading toward their meager quarters.

"Uh, Prime?" Smokescreen's tentative vocals make Optimus pause.

He turns, raising an optical ridge.

Smokescreen eases, just a pace, behind Bulkhead who shifts in place. "They're not here."

Ratchet whirls on the two warriors, flames burning in his optics. "I confined those two slaggers to base!" he snarls.

Optimus forces himself to resist the urge to sigh again. "Where are they?"

Arcee points a thumb over her shoulder. "If I had to guess, halfway to Vegas by now."

"We need a brig," Ratchet announces.

"I could give chase?" Smokescreen suggests with an eager rev of his engine.

"That won't be necessary." Optimus palms his faceplate. "Ratchet, track their location and bring them back."

Muttering subvocally, Ratchet stomps over to the main console, fingers tapping away to program the ground bridge.

This is, of course, the very moment that the monitor gives off a series of obnoxious tones that startle Ratchet. Fowler's face appears on screen again, bellowing Optimus' title.

He gives in to the urge to sigh. Where's a Decepticon attack when you need one?


	35. Love/Hate Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Pairings: Sunstreaker/Sideswipe  
> Rating: NC-17  
> Description: Somewhere between love and hate lies the bond they share. 
> 
> Warnings: twincest, sticky, dubcon, asphyxiation-play, rough sex

The battle against the Decepticons was run of the mill, nothing spectacular, nothing special. Just the usual ride out to meet them, pound them into scrap, and watch Megatron and Starscream fly away with their proverbial tails between their legs. It was nothing to write home about.   
  
The fight afterward, however, well that was stuff for the recordbooks. Sideswipe gleefully threw himself into it with all faculties intact, not caring that his right knee was scrap and he had a few choice bullet-holes in his plating. Mesh wounds, really.   
  
Ratchet was going to blow a fuse once he figured out that his favorite patients hadn't gone straight to medbay as they'd been ordered. Heh. That could be fun, too.   
  
Later though.   
  
Right now, it was this fight. Danger spliced with fury mixed with searing, spark-throbbing need.   
  
Sunstreaker threw him to the ground, Sideswipe sliding across it and leaving a strip of red paint behind. His processor jarred, ventilations wide open to suck in desperate, cooling breaths. Sunstreaker stalking toward him, optics bleeding rage, hands drawn into fists, and Sideswipe laughing, near-maniacal, dragging himself upward, launching at his twin.   
  
They traded blows, no holds barred, Sunstreaker's fist pounding into Sideswipe's mid-section, buckling his abdominal armor. He gasped out, ventilations thrown off-rhythm, and jerked a knee upward, barely missing Sunsreaker's faceplate. His twin jerked back in enough time to avoid the painful blow, conscious as always of his own appearance.   
  
They grappled, energy fields crashing together with no subtlety. Fierce with emotion, a twisted tangle that no mech would ever understand. Thank Primus they'd locked their quarters. Otherwise some well-meaning Autobot might invite himself inside to investigate the ruckus. Oh, Jazz might still do it.   
  
Heh. Jazz. Maybe next time.   
  
Sideswipe smirked, energon dribbling from the cut in his lipplate, and rammed his shoulder into Sunstreaker's chassis. His brother skidded across the ground, slamming backward into an end table, knocking down a lamp. It crashed to the floor, shattering. Frag it, there went another one.   
  
“Fragging glitch!” Sunstreaker snarled, his vocalizer emitting bursts of static.   
  
Sideswipe's answer was to laugh again, a laugh that died when Sunstreaker's fist slammed into his faceplate again. His processor spun. He barely felt Sunstreaker grab him, whirl him around, and his impact with the wall jarred him out of the half-numb state. Sideswipe's vision briefly fuzzed and he fought to refresh his optics, even as Sunstreaker's frame crashed into his, pinning him to the wall. Fingers locked around his throat, pushing him against the wall, just tight enough to put pressure on the cables in Sideswipe's neck, constricting the main energon line running to his helm.   
  
He locked his fingers around Sunstreaker's wrist but didn't try to pull away, not when Sunstreaker's hold tightened in warning. His pedes barely touched the ground and sometimes, he really did forget how strong his twin could be. Sunstreaker's had himself modified over the years, adding stabilizers to his frame, strengthening his hydraulics, to the point where he rivaled Ironhide for sturdiness.   
  
“You're not going to kill me,” Sideswipe forced out, energon dribbling from his lip, stretched wide with a smile. His free hand wobbled in the air, trying for Sunstreaker's shoulder only to be batted away.   
  
“I'm strongly considering it,” Sunstreaker snarled, leaning closer, their faceplates inches apart. “Though you seem to be doing a fine job attempting it yourself.”   
  
Sideswipe's engine gave a pathetic rumble. “Oh, come on. That shot was at least three feet away. Didn't even sear the paint.”   
  
Sunstreaker's optics narrowed down. His free hand balled into a fist, slamming into Sideswipe's side where his armor was noticeably scorched, and ow, that wasn't comfortable at all.   
  
Sideswipe winced and his free hand dropped to his side, tucking his elbow closer to his frame, defending the vulnerable zone.   
  
“Barely a scratch?” Sunstreaker sneered.   
  
“It stings a little,” Sideswipe conceded.   
  
A growl reverberated in Sunstreaker's engine. His optics narrowed to thin slits, his free hand groping between Sideswipe's legs, palming his interface panel. His fingers traced the edges of it.   
  
“Open,” he demanded.   
  
Sideswipe gave his twin a lop-sided smile. “Another time maybe. When you're not so... volatile? In fact, I think Ratchet's pinging me right now-- Sunny!” The fragger had pinched one of the cables at his hip and not nicely either.   
  
“Open or I rip it off,” Sunstreaker growled.   
  
He'd do it, too.   
  
Sideswipe obliged, panel snapping open, three of Sunstreaker's fingers immediately plunging into his valve, already slick and dripping lubricant. Sideswipe moaned, the calipers in his valve clamping down on his brother's fingers, his frame bucking toward Sunstreaker with a slide of metal on metal.   
  
“I can't tell what gets you off more,” Sunstreaker said, his tone low and measured, a clear indication of the simmering fury beneath the surface. “The close calls, the violence, or the punishment.” He slammed his fingers into Sideswipe, scraping across sensitive nodes, and a downright shriek escaped Sideswipe's vocalizer. “Maybe it's all three.”   
  
Sideswipe's free hand scrabbled at Sunstreaker's chestplate, trying to hook on a loose piece of plating, drag his twin closer, but Sunstreaker's clamped his armor down tight. There was nowhere to get a grip.   
  
He shifted his balance and one leg curled around Sunstreaker's hip, heel pressed to his brother's backplate. “Please,” Sideswipe begged, not even sure it was what he wanted but definitely what he needed.   
  
Sunstreaker jerked his fingers free and a whine of loss escaped Sideswipe, but he didn't have to complain for long. Almost as quickly, Sunstreaker replaced his fingers with his spike, pushing up into him in one long, deep thrust, his lubricant-damp hand grabbing Sideswipe's hip and pulling him completely onto Sunstreaker's spike.   
  
Sideswipe moaned, the vibrations buzzing against Sunstreaker's hand, the grip on his throat flexing as though teasing him with the inherent danger. He brought up his other leg, clasping both around Sunstreaker's hips, sinking fully onto Sunstreaker's spike until the head bumped against the ceiling node with a sharp burst of circuit-sizzling pleasure.   
  
Sideswipe worked his intake, feeling the pressure of Sunstreaker's fingers on his throat cabling. “Don't break me,” he gasped.   
  
“Don't tempt me,” Sunstreaker retorted and brought their mouths together in a stinging kiss, his glossa flicking over the cuts on Sideswipe's lip.   
  
Sunstreaker's grip on his hip tightened, Sideswipe's only warning before his twin pulled out and shoved back into him, sparking sensory nodes with electric fire. Any noises he made were drowned by the kiss as Sunstreaker set a brutal pace, hard and quick, his spike raking over the sensor rings lining Sideswipe's valve, pushing through the eager clenching of the calipers.   
  
Charge danced across Sideswipe's plating, building faster and faster, to the rhythm of Sunstreaker's hips clanging against his. He moaned, squeezing Sunstreaker's wrist, heat lashing through his systems. His cooling fans whined desperately, pleasure streaking through his sensory net and Sunstreaker's mouth remained on his, hot and needy.   
  
When overload came, it seemed pulled from the depths of Sideswipe's being. He all but shrieked, writhing against the wall, thighs clamping on Sunstreaker's hips as his frame bucked, lubricant gushing from his valve.   
  
His spark pulsed, one long, heavy throb and Sunstreaker tore his mouth away, burying it in Sideswipe's shoulder, denta clamping down as a violent shudder tore through his frame. Overload whipped through Sunstreaker's energy field, crashing into Sideswipe and pulling an over-sensitive shudder from him.   
  
Sunstreaker sagged, leaning against Sideswipe, his hold laxing on the red twin's throat. His helm fell to Sideswipe's shoulder as he lowered Sideswipe so that his pedes could rest on the ground.   
  
“One of these days,” Sunstreaker said tiredly, cooling fans purring at max. “I really am going to kill you.”   
  
Sideswipe patted his brother on the back, the other massaging his sore throat. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Love you, too.”

***


	36. Dance with the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: TF:Prime  
> Characters: Jazz, Shockwave  
> Description: That Shockwave. He never could take a joke.

"What an interesting predicament we find ourselves in," Jazz says, holding his blaster steady despite the trembling of his frame.

A single optic stares back at him, cold and unyielding. "State your purpose, Autobot."

"You mean, it's not obvious?" Jazz slides a step to the right, ignoring the stabs of pain from his left knee and the gurgle of his hydraulics. "I'm disappointed, mech. Don't ya know who I am?"

"Your designation is of no consequence to me."

There isn't so much of a twitch to serve as warning, but Jazz reads the intent in his opponent's unwavering gaze nonetheless. The blast fills the corridor and Jazz throws himself to the side to avoid it, feeling the edge of the heatwave score against his dorsal plating.

He winces, hits the ground on his right shoulder, and rolls back onto his pedes.

"State your purpose, Autobot," Shockwave repeats with a menacing step forward, cannon raised toward Jazz once more. "If your answer proves satisfactory, I might make this painless."

Jazz forces out a laugh, and behind his visor, searches valiantly for an escape route. "Hardly incentive, Shockwave. Most evil villains have better threats than that, ya know."

The sharp whine of that massive cannon charging for another strong blast fills the narrow hallway. "That was no threat, Autobot."

Does nothing break the mech's calm? Primus, it's like trying to get a rise out of Prowl!

Jazz slides another pace backward, ignoring the energon plopping freely from the gash in his arm. He's only got to stall Shockwave just a bit longer. What's taking them so long anyway! Did his timer malfunction? Frag Perceptor if it did!

"An invitation then?" Jazz suggests with a smirk and throws himself into another clumsy dive and roll to avoid Shockwave's second shot. This time, Jazz manages to squeeze off a round of his own, though it misses by several microns and Shockwave doesn't so much as flinch. "Afraid I'll have to decline. Interfactional romances are frowned upon."

The sound of pedesteps echoes from around the curve of the hall. Frag it. Shockwave's reinforcements are answering their master's call.

Jazz, mech, you've gotten yourself into quite the rusted gear here.

Shockwave's optic flashes, cannon giving another fierce whine of charge. "I will give you one final chance, Autobot. State your purpose. Otherwise I shall be forced to acquire it through alternate means."

Jazz's fuel pump stutters. Frag no. He knows all bout Shockwave's little processor-hacking device and he wants nothing of it. No, thank you.

"As fun as that sounds," Jazz says, and in the distance, he hears a low, continuous rumble. Finally! He smirks. "I think that's my cue."

Alert sirens wail into existence, screaming their warnings at a noxious pitch. Lights flash in alternating bands of crimson and ocher. A monotonous voice announces that the infrastructure has been damaged and critical supports are malfunctioning.

Good times.

Emotion suddenly flares into Shockwave's energy field, which batters at Jazz as though it holds tangible razorblades.

"What have you done?" the Decepticon scientist demands, hand whipping through the air in express shock.

"Nothing much." Jazz pulls up a mental schematic of this not-so-secret-anymore laboratory, tracing all routes, anything that might get him the scrap out of here. "A bomb here. A crossed wire there. I say you've got three breems before this compound becomes a hole in the ground. Too bad, so sad."

Fury bleeds from Shockwave's energy field before he can whip it back into shape. "You ignorant pile of scrap!"

The scientist doesn't bother with ceremony anymore. He lifts his arm, aims and fires, heat and pressure filling the narrow corridor.

Jazz scrambles to avoid the powerful blasts, laughing at the sight of Shockwave's infamous reserve vanishing in the wake of screeching alarms and a monotone countdown suggesting evacuation.

Primus, you touch a mech's questionable experiments and suddenly he goes off the deep end.

"I'd apologize but I'm not sorry," Jazz says, using a small stack of supply crates for a temporary cover. "And I'd love to stay and chat but, you know, Autobots to see, Decepticons to scrap, labs to sabotage. Fun times."

He senses heat, energy crackling through the air, and Jazz throws himself to the left, barely avoiding Shockwave's next round. It clips his fully-functional leg, scoring plating with the sharp stench of burnt metal and Jazz scrambles to his pedes, hissing as pain radiates everywhere.

"There is no escape, Autobot."

A subroutine flashes brightly at him. Schematics zoom in and highlight for good measure. Escape route located.

"On the contrary, Shockey, I've just found my out." Jazz whips his blaster toward the Decepticon and aims a series of rounds at Shockwave, more distractions than anything else, and throws his battered frame toward the trash chute he's found.

"By the way," Jazz adds as Shockwave flails to avoid the blasterfire. "My designation's not Autobot. It's Jazz. Have a nice orn!"

With a cheerful wave, Jazz dives into the disposal chute, thanking Primus and anyone else that'll listen that he can fit, just as cannon fire erupts into the corridor behind him.

That Shockwave. He never could take a joke.


	37. Guardian Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: OptimusxSideswipe  
> Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM  
> Warnings: mentions of twincest, angst, background character death, sparkmerging  
> Description: Grief shared is always easier to bear.

"You're not recharging again."

Optimus cycles his optics, pulling himself from a fugue to acknowledge his subordinate. "Should you not be on patrol?"

"I traded with Jolt," Sideswipe answers and in the following silence, closes the distance between them, rolling up to stand on Optimus' other side.

He says nothing else, at first, and Optimus savors the quiet. He returns his gaze to the starlit night, broken by a scatter of light clouds, but for the most part, dark and speckled. Here, out beyond human civilization, there is little to obscure the view. Optimus prefers it this way.

He wonders, many times, if he stares hard enough, focuses with all his power, he might catch a glimpse of Cybertron. The Cybertron that was, at any rate.

Light traveling as it does often gives the illusion of traveling back in time, reversing the chronometer. And tonight, like many other nights, Optimus would give anything for the power to return to the past. The future has become too difficult to bear.

"It's a pain incomparable to anything else," Sideswipe says, his soft vocals spilling into the companionable quiet. "That hole in your spark... nothing helps."

Optimus dips his helm, offlining his optics. Of course. Sideswipe would understand. He is, most likely, the only Autobot who will ever understand.

"After vorns at odds, it should be easier to bear," Optimus admits, hands pulling into slow, trembling fists at his sides before he unfurls his fingers.

Sideswipe's energy field tentatively reaches out, offering... Optimus isn't sure what to call it. Commiseration? Comfort? Understanding?

"You can't hate half of your spark," Sideswipe retorts with a heavy, bitter tone that Optimus knows all too well. "No matter how deep the betrayal."

Optimus onlines his optics, looking down at his soldier. "You have changed, Sideswipe."

The warrior's lipplates quirk into a wry grin. "Haven't we all?" he asks before the smile melts away into sobriety. "I can help, Prime. I understand."

"Sunstreaker."

Bright blue optics dim, a hand lifting to touch his chassis, gesturing to the spark behind his chestplates. "I felt it when he offlined though I don't know how or why. I probably never will."

Optimus extends his own energy field without fully considering it. "Then allow me to offer comfort as well."

A grated laugh escapes from Sideswipe's vocalizer, but he turns toward Optimus nonetheless. "Same old Prime. Unable to accept it for your own sake."

One hand traces the near-invisible seam of Sideswipe's chestplates, which part a micron, causing a sliver of light to spill into the starlit night between them. "I won't ever feel whole again."

Optimus folds himself down, a necessity considering their height difference, his energy field wrapping around Sideswipe with tangible weight. Offering. Inviting.

Sideswipe accepts, folding into Optimus' embrace, nuzzling his faceplate against Optimus' with a light crackle of static dancing between them.

"You can grieve with me, Optimus," Sideswipe murmurs as Optimus triggers his own chestplates to part, windshields moving up and aside. "I won't ever tell."

Shuttering his optics, Optimus wraps his arms around Sideswipe, holding the warrior to his chassis. He surrenders himself to the eager pull of a broken spark, as fractured and aching as his own. Their frames come together in shared grief that no other Autobot can fathom and there's a small comfort in that knowledge.

And for the first time since the battle in Mission City, since the ruin that was Chicago, Optimus keens for his loss. For the brother he offlined because he had no other choice.


	38. Telling the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: JazzxWheeljack, Ratchet, Others  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Wheeljack has no rhythm. This is a well-established fact.

The moment Jazz steps into the rec room, music pouring from his speakers, Wheeljack knows he should have run when he first had the chance. What was he thinking? Hiding in plain sight? When has that ever helped!

He swings his gaze back toward Ratchet, indicators flashing a desperate plea for assistance.

"Oh, no," Ratchet says, shaking with mirth. "You've made your berth. Best lie in it."

"But-"

A hand clamps on Wheeljack's shoulder, spinning him around in his chair, coming optics to, well, bumper with the very mech he should have run from ten seconds ago.

"My love," Jazz says, visor bright with mischief, music pulsing a happy, infectious beat. "Can I have this dance?"

Jazz's arms wave widely, open invitation, his pedes skipping a cheerful rhythm that matches the music. He grins and extends a hand to the mortified engineer, wriggling his fingers expectantly.

Wheeljack's grip on the seat of his chair might better be described as 'death-like.'

Seriously? Wheeljack has no rhythm. This is a well-established fact. He's a disaster on the dance floor, always has been. Just like singing. For the sake of all audials present, Wheeljack has been more or less banned from singing in public.

"Jazz-"

"Just one?" the saboteur interrupts, twitching his fingers again. His vocals shift into a purr few mechs have ever been able to resist, much less Wheeljack with his willpower made of swiss cheese. "Don't break my spark, darling."

"Yeah, Jack! Go for it!" Someone in the crowd of amused onlookers encourages.

Wheeljack makes a note to put something unpleasant in that mech's energon. Just as soon as he identifies the perpetrator.

"C'mon!" Someone else adds.

"You can do it!" And that is definitely Bluestreak, adding on a cheerful giggle.

"Cut a rug!" Had to be Blaster.

"Yeah," Ratchet drawls from behind Wheeljack and he just knows that the medic is smirking from audial to audial. "Break a leg."

Wheeljack sighs, knowing he's been beaten, a sigh of good humor. "You're incorrigible," he says as he takes Jazz's hand.

He yelps as the saboteur yanks him to his pedes and immediately spins him to the pulsing beat, Jazz's inherent grace making up for Wheeljack's clumsiness.

"It's all a part of my charm," Jazz purrs, half of his visor dimming in a wink. "Now let me see ya groove, partner."


	39. Die Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: JazzxBluestreak, others  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: The best-worst idea that's ever wandered across Bluestreak's thoughts.

Jazz is very overcharged. His visor is bright, too bright, and there's a distinct wobble to his movements that speaks of overenergized circuits and misfiring synapses. Bluestreak thinks he must be overcharged too because that smile on Jazz's lips is the sexiest thing he's ever seen this side of Cybertron.

"Hey, Blue," Jazz purrs, fingers sliding up Bluestreak's arm and tapdancing their way across his upper arm. "I ever tell ya I got a thing for shoulder cannons?" he asks, preempting his statement by dragging those deft fingers over Bluestreak's shoulder mount.

He shivers, doorwings rattling, leaning into the touch, leaning a bit more when the high grade sloshes inside of him. Jazz laughs and reaches out to stabilize him with wandering hands and a bright visor and this is quite probably the best-worst idea that's ever wandered across Bluestreak's thoughts.

"That's... um... news to me, Jazz," Bluestreak stutters as a hot and heavy energy field washes over his plating, making his circuits tingle. Worse that the music is pounding with bass, rattling his frame, making his spark throb. "But lots of Autobots have shoulder cannons. Wheeljack, does. And Perceptor. And Sideswipe and – urk!"

Jazz's fingers circle the cannon mount, pressing closer, the revving of his engine adding to the vibrations rocking Bluestreak's frame. "Mebbe I should be more specific," he says, hips swaying to the beat and capturing Blusetreak's attention. "I like _your_ shoulder cannon."

Bluestreak feels his faceplates heat. Best-worst idea. Completely.

"Jazz, everyone's watching," he says, optics darting around, noticing that there were more Autobots avidly looking than there were discreetly looking away.

"Let 'em watch, they can't help themselves," Jazz replies, static leaping from his fingers to Bluestreak's armor, dancing to the sensors beneath and alighting him with pleasure. "They're jealous."

As if to prove Jazz's point, Bluestreak's personal comm instantly pings with several comments, most of the encouragement kind and in Smokescreen's case, with rather lewd suggestions for what he can do with the sexy saboteur hanging on him.

Well, then. If that's the way they're going to be...

Bluestreak lifts a hand, placing it on Jazz's waist, fingers rapping a rhythm that matches the beat of the music, sure to vibrate in the best kinds of ways through Jazz's frame. "If you don't mind, I don't mind," Bluestreak says and doesn't bother to fight back his laugh at the startled look on Jazz's faceplate, or the surprised flash in the mech's visor. "But if we're going to put on a show, it better be a good one. I'm sure Sideswipe wants to get his credit's worth."

Because honestly, the red twin probably put Jazz up to this. He's been nagging and nagging Bluestreak to stop with the innocent act and break everyone's processor with the truth. Mostly because he wants to see someone other than Prowl glitch for once.

Jazz laughs, his energy field washing over Bluestreak with elements of surprise and intrigue and a hefty dose of audacity. "Baby Blue, you've grown."

"Been grown, Jazz. Just been waiting for someone to notice," Bluestreak replies and his fingers dance a happy path along Jazz's armor, finding a transformation seam and wriggling between the plating, feeling the burr-snap of charge as it rushes through Jazz's circuits.

"Oh, I'm noticin'," Jazz purrs, hip swaying his way closer, a languid roll of his frame pushing them together with a vibrating rasp of metal on metal. "And I'm likin' what I see. Care to take this somewhere private?"

Bluestreak leans forward, nuzzling a sensor horn with the side of his helm as he whispers into Jazz's vocalizer, "I thought you wanted to put on a show."

Jazz bursts into a fresh round of laughter. "If that's what ya want, then that's what they'll get." He buries a hand in Bluestreak's circuitry, setting of a burst of sizzling pleasure. "C'mon, Blue. Let's see what ya got."

"With pleasure," Bluestreak says. And proceeds to do just that.


	40. Expedient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: BlurrxShockwave  
> Universe: TFA  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: bondage, unhinged!Blurr   
> Description: Blurr's been given an opportunity; Shockwave is not pleased.

“Retribution, they're calling it. Repayment. Reparations. Whatever term makes you squirm apparently.”   
  
Blurr tapped his chin with two digits, looking down at the mech bound in chains. Shockwave was on his knees, wrists cuffed, transformation cog removed, weapons destroyed. Completely subdued in other words. Just about harmless.   
  
Shockwave said nothing. That was okay. Blurr didn't need the Decepticon to talk. He wanted Shockwave to listen. And seethe.   
  
“I can tell by that gleam in your optic that you're surprised,” Blurr continued and began a slow, steady circling of his new... gift? Pet? Servant? What the frag was he supposed to do with a Decepticon? “You thought I was crushed. Offline. Nothing more than spare parts. Fuel for the furnace.”   
  
He paused just behind Shockwave, memories coming to him unbidden. The fear, sharp and acrid, like burned circuits. The walls closing in, closer and closer, where at first he thought he was imagining things but no, the space was getting smaller and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. He couldn't warn anyone, couldn't warn Ultra Magnus, there was just--  
  
\--pain and agony and darkness. Then the pain was gone because his receptors weren't there. His processor was a crumpled wreck. His spark was a dim flicker. He guttered so many times. Or did he? Sometimes, Blurr couldn't really remember. His memory core had been crumpled, too. All that remained were the impressions on his spark.   
  
The jittery sensation returned and Blurr started to pace once again, anxious flickers of charge dancing through his circuits. He shook his helm, doggedly continuing.   
  
That therapist would probably tell him that taking the mech who had nearly killed him was far from a good idea. Frag. What did the therapist know anyway?  
  
Blurr circled back around to Shockwave's front, that single optic meeting his gaze with eerie purpose.   
  
“Honestly, I don't know what the Magnus is thinking.” If the Magnus even _thinks_ , everyone knew Sentinel was just a windbag wrapped in an aluminum shell. “He wouldn't dare do this to Megatron. Oh, no. He was sent straight to spark prison. But you?” A bitter, cruel smirk curved Blurr's lipplate. “No one cares about you.”   
  
He cocked out a hip, arms crossed, staring down at his... slave.   
  
A deep ventilation hummed from the Decepticon's frame. “If you wish to demoralize me, you will not succeed.”   
  
Blurr laughed. How could he not? And if it was a little pitched, a little not-quite-there, well that was his secret to keep.   
  
“I'm just the messenger. And apparently the master. _Your_ master as a matter of fact, Shockwave.” He leaned down, energy field a repressive wall against the bound Decepticon. “Or is it Longarm? Which one do you prefer? I'd hate to offend.”   
  
This felt good. Like he was in control again. Like the walls weren't closing in and all he had to do was put pedes to the road and he could be off again.   
  
Shockwave's optic flashed. “Do you think it is a kindness?”  
  
“I think it is what you deserve.” Blurr circled around the Decepticon, wondering if the constant movement unnerved Shockwave. Wondered if the infiltrator was bothered by his captivity, by his helplessness.   
  
“They should have executed you,” Blurr continued. “Like some of the others.” Lugnut, for one. And a couple of the Starscream clones.   
  
Shockwave tilted his helm, defiant. “Wonder why they did not,” he said, vocals low and warning. “And then wonder what side you have chosen.”   
  
Blurr barked a laugh, coming to a halt in front of Shockwave. He crouched, one digit curling under Shockwave's chin, pushing it further up. “Funny you should mention that. You did such a good job pretending to be one of us. I wonder how many times your loyalty wavered.”   
  
A tangible vibration rattled Shockwave's armor, indignation at Blurr's insinuation echoing in his energy field. Hmm. Struck a circuit, did he?   
  
“Oh, don't worry, Shockwave.” Blurr flicked his finger up and then drew back, leaving the Decepticon to glare at him. “I'll take good care of you. Just as you were so kind to me.”


	41. Showtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: SideswipexSunstreaker, Prowl  
> Universe:G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: twincest, sticky, exhbitionism, a touch of voyeurism   
> Description: Sunny has a kink, Sideswipe obliges, and Prowl makes an offer.

This was the only time Sunstreaker allowed Sideswipe to be so rough with him. The attention made it all worth it. The feel of optics on his frame, admiring his finish, listening to him moan...   
  
Sunstreaker relished it all. Their jealousy. Their admiration. Their desire.   
  
Sideswipe's approval was the gloss on his finish, purring warmly across their link, and throbbing excitedly in his spark.   
  
_You're so beautiful like this_ , Sideswipe murmured over a private, narrowband comm. _Open and desperate. Eager for me._   
  
Sunstreaker moaned, arching up against his brother's frame, feeling the rasping slide of plating against plating. Though his wrists were pinned quite firmly to the table, he still had some measure of movement. Just enough to make it interesting.   
  
Something crunched beneath Sunstreaker's weight. Probably a cube. They were in the rec room after all.   
  
An unamused sigh filtered through to Sunstreaker's audials. “Was that necessary?”   
  
His optics snapped open, despite the pleasure coursing through his body, the steady thrust-snap of Sideswipe's hips against his, the push-slide of Sideswipe's spike in his valve, the drip-tap of his lubricant as it hit the floor.   
  
“What? Not enjoying the show?” Sideswipe asked, his vocals a teasing purr that both invited and warned away.   
  
Prowl – of course it had to be Prowl, Sideswipe had a thing for annoying the strict officer – shook his helm. “You have private quarters for a reason, Sideswipe.”   
  
Sideswipe laughed. “Or maybe you just need a better view.”   
  
Sunstreaker's world turned upside down.   
  
Or, to be more precise, Sideswipe pulled out, grabbed him by the hips, and flipped him over. Sunstreaker grunted as his chest slammed into the table top, directly on a datapad – which explained the earlier crunch – and he came faceplate to optics with Prowl. A very unamused Prowl who didn't so much as cycle his optics when Sideswipe shoved Sunstreaker's legs apart, thrust into him without ceremony and Sunstreaker howled his pleasure, hands scrabbling at the table's edge, leaving dents behind.   
  
“What do you think now?” Sideswipe asked, one hand landing on Sunstreaker's back, keeping him pinned to the table. “Still uninspired?” He leaned forward, fingers burying in sensitive seams at Sunstreaker's side, forcing a whimper from him.   
  
He looked at Prowl who flicked a glance first at Sideswipe before meeting Sunstreaker's gaze. The barest glint of something sparked in those bright optics as Prowl lifted his hand, cupping Sunstreaker's faceplate with the sort of care reserved for intimate lovers.   
  
“If you ever tire of such juvenile games, come find me,” he said with a resonation in his vocals that sent a tingle down Sunstreaker's backstrut.   
  
Prowl rose to his pedes with a final caress to Sunstreaker's faceplate and promptly quit the room, with nary a twitch in his doorwings to indicate the enormous bombshell he'd just dropped.   
  
Sideswipe's eager rhythm faltered. Sunstreaker's engine revved. His faceplate tingled.   
  
“Did he just...”   
  
Sunstreaker squirmed, valve squeezing his brother's spike. “Stop wondering and start fragging me, slaggit!” he growled, fingers gripping the table tightly.   
  
“Primus, you're pushy when you're desperate,” Sideswipe grumbled, but he picked up the pace and the pleasant sensations in Sunstreaker's valve returned.   
  
He would ponder the promise in Prowl's optics later. After Sideswipe gave him the overload he so desperately needed.


	42. Exterior Design

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Tracks  
> Universe: G1, pre-series  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: Tracks is given an offer he can't afford to refuse.

_“What we need, gentlemechs, is a bot with a sense of style and aesthetics. One who understands both form and function while still invoking an appreciation of beauty. This cannot be a simple rebuild. It must be perfect. He is our Prime, the one who will end this war. We need, gentlemechs, the best.”_  
  
A smile curved the lipplates of one council member, who tapped his chin with elegantly tapered digits. “I think I know just the bot.”   
  
The request was waiting in his inbox when Tracks returned from a supply run. Arching an orbital ridge, Tracks queued up the message for replay as he bustled about his storage, putting his carefully acquired necessities in their proper place. It was getting harder and harder to find what he needed as of late. This blasted war... frag the Decepticons to the Pit and back!  
  
He ex-vented and shook his helm. Peace, he told himself. Getting outrageously angry would do nothing for either his own state or for Cybertron itself. It was pointless.   
  
He only half-listened as the message droned in the background, some mech blathering on about duty and honor and a great opportunity. Tracks revved his engine. Like he hadn't heard that before.   
  
He rolled his optics, moving into the tiny confines of his energon storage, selecting from his rapidly diminishing stock of high quality cubes.   
  
The mech continued to chatter. Tracks heard something about designing a rebuild, prompting another roll of his optics. After that last public dismissal? Frag, no. He was done, absolutely done with designing frames.   
  
Tracks cracked open a cube and dropped down into a chair, which creaked ominously beneath him. He scowled. Once upon a time, he'd had only the finest to his designation. Such was a thing of the past, before the scandal, and the public dismissal of his services by that pompous, overbearing, wouldn't know a good paintjob if it reached out and slapped him across the--   
  
Wait. What?   
  
Tracks tilted his helm, dialing up his audials.   
  
“--opportunity of a lifetime,” the mech was droning, sounding bored even to himself. “Your designation will be recorded in the annals.”  
  
Jerking back to his pedes, Tracks stormed into the other room and slapped the console, prompting it to rewind a few kliks back in the message.   
  
Yes. He'd heard it right. They were offering more creds than Tracks could ever dream of. More than enough to get him out of this slum, back into the public optic, and quite possibly, back into the upper echelon where he belonged.   
  
But was it worth it?  
  
He leaned a hip against the counter, letting the recording play on.   
  
War was rapidly overtaking Cybertron so much so that Tracks had considered more than once upgrading his exquisite design to include weapons and better armor. Did his reputation really matter?   
  
The recording ended with a final plea and a callback number. There was a designation attached to the request. A designation Tracks knew all too well. Trust Trion to be the one to suggest his services to the other council members.   
  
But to design the new Prime? He was potentially setting himself up for either the worst kind of failure, or the best kind of praise. He did not like the knowledge that there was no certainty for either.   
  
Tracks ex-vented softly, glancing around the pitiful shelter he called home. It was under-stocked, under-designed, and barely adequate to his needs.   
  
He would never get another opportunity like the one Alpha Trion offered. Not with the way Cybertron was devolving. And honestly, what did he have left to lose?   
  
Pushing himself off the counter, Tracks reached for his tiny comm console. It was time to make a call.


	43. Captive, My Captive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Thundercracker, Prowl, Skywarp  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: implied slavery, war's end, character death  
> Description: Optimus Prime is dead. To the victor go the spoils.

In captivity, Praxians were nearly as feral as Seekers. Prowl hadn't stopped glaring since the moment he onlined. His optics were like blue lasers, as cold and hard as the ice in the Arctic Circle. 

It was more emotion than Thundercracker had ever seen the Autobot tactician produce and there was something thrilling in that knowledge. 

Was it the chains keeping his wrists shackled to the wall? Was it the bolts punched through his sensory panels, pinning them also? Was it the way his knees were awkwardly bent beneath him, legs splayed as though offering his interface? 

Or maybe it was the knowledge of the Autobots' defeat that had broken Prowl. Optimus Prime was dead. His forces had tried to rally, but this was where it got them. Bound. Captive. Defeated. Broken. 

In Decepticon chains. 

Thundercracker didn't know what Megatron had planned for the survivors. Torture, perhaps. Humiliation. Death. 

Prowl had probably already guessed. Had calculated the likely outcomes in that magic processor of his. So maybe that was the reason for his behavior. 

A low rumble filled the cell, gears churning and grinding against one another. The Autobot's engine growled, like that of a dying organic, the last throes of a trapped beast. 

It was, in retrospect, rather unsettling. 

“Thundercracker! Stop staring at the Autobot. You're freaking me out.” 

He cycled his optics, backing away a step. He was, to quote Skywarp, freaking himself out honestly. “I'm not staring.” 

“Were, too.” Skywarp punched him on the shoulder, only to lean upon it as he stared past Thundercracker and into the cell. “He's not even one of the prettier ones. You have terrible taste. You know that gold menace is just a few cells down.” 

Thundercracker didn't miss the way Prowl flinched, or how his lipplates curled back over his denta. Yeah, Prowl had his suspicions. And now Thundercracker did, too. 

“Don't be ridiculous.” Thundercracker shrugged off his fellow Seeker, turning away with a rustle of his wingtips. “That's disgusting.” 

“Suit yourself.” Skywarp threw an arm back over his shoulders, striding in step with him. “Primus, you're boring.” 

Thundercracker ignored him, pausing to glance once more into Prowl's cell. Those icy optics glared back at him, flat and merciless. 

A shiver clawed down Thundercracker's backstrut. 

Not for all the energon in the world.


	44. Unconventional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: TrailbreakerxSunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: sticky   
> Description: It was an attraction that defied explanation.

It was an attraction that defied explanation. 

Sunstreaker couldn't put it into words himself. Trailbreaker was the complete opposite of everything Sunstreaker found appealing. He was kind and considerate where Sunstreaker was borderline psychopathic. He was logical where Sunstreaker could be and more often was reckless and Trailbreaker preferred to defend where Sunstreaker would rather charge helm first with an offensive strike. 

Trailbreaker was large and slow and bulky. He maintained his armor to the recommended minimum. He was quiet and unassuming and often blended into the background. He liked Earth and the humans and never made much of a fuss about anything. 

In short, he was not a partner Sunstreaker would have ever selected out of a line up. 

But the feel of those large servos on his frame, the regard in Trailbreaker's warm visor as his gaze flicked over Sunstreaker from top to bottom, it was addicting. It didn't make any sense, but addictions rarely did. 

Sunstreaker offlined his optics, giving himself over to sensation because it was just that easy. His engine whined, but Trailbreaker's more powerful motor rumbled, sending vibrations cascading through Sunstreaker. 

He moaned, his servos grasping for a hold against black, pitted armor, strong and tough. Durable. The steady push of Trailbreaker's spike roused pleasure in growing pulses through his valve. 

Sunstreaker's existence was a thing of violence. On the battlefield and off it, from the moment he was sparked, and for the entirety of his functioning. Violence was what Sunstreaker knew. It was where he excelled. It was what he wanted. 

It was what Trailbreaker never gave him. 

His touches were always infinitely gentle, as though Sunstreaker were a precious item. Delicate. Too easily shattered. And maybe he was right. 

Sunstreaker often thought he should feel insulted, indignant even. He didn't. It was... nice to be treasured. Nice to feel like he was worth more than his body count. And Trailbreaker made him feel that way. 

“Hey.” 

A servo cupped Sunstreaker's faceplate, pulling him from his musings, the vocals rumbling through him and resonating in his spark chamber. “You still with me?” 

Sunstreaker unshuttered his optics, looking up into Trailbreaker's visor. He turned toward his partner's palm, ex-venting warmly upon it. He could smell the wax Trailbreaker used, cheap but effective, and the faint evidence of gun oil. 

“Always,” Sunstreaker said before he could censor himself. Trailbreaker seemed to do that to him, make him speak without thinking, make him react. 

He cut a gaze at the larger mech. “But if you ever tell anyone I was that sappy, I'll rip off your arm.” 

Trailbreaker chuckled, no trace of fear in his energy field. “I know better than to make that kind of mistake.” His other hand tapped a rhythm on Sunstreaker's hip. 

“Good.” Sunstreaker clenched down on Trailbreaker's spike, providing a shudder form his larger partner. “Frag me. Please.” 

A thumb swept across his cheek plating. “Whatever you say,” Trailbreaker murmured, and a slow, deep thrust made Sunstreaker moan. 

No. It didn't make any sense at all. But sometimes, Sunstreaker supposed, it didn't have to.


	45. Good Time to Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Shockwave, Bumblebee  
> Universe: TFA, post-season three  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: canon-typical violence   
> Description: Bumblebee was bored. But this isn't what he had in mind to entertain him.

Becoming a member of the Elite Guard wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Saving Earth and Cybertron from Decepticon incursion wasn't enough. Oh, no. It was barely a boost to get him started at the lowest, entry level. 

Essentially, guard duty. 

Primus was he bored. 

Maintaining space bridges was more entertaining than guarding prisoners. Even the high security ones like Lugnut and Blitzwing barely gave him a thrill. The Elite Guard kept them so doped on processor sedatives that the 'Cons just sat there and drooled, so to speak. 

Optimus and Bulkhead, at least, were being kept busy in various arenas of Cybertron. Optimus was vying for Magnus and Bulkhead was working with the space bridges. Ratchet had his servos full of patients. Even Sari had something to occupy herself. 

Bumblebee felt a little bit like he'd been kicked aside. So much for being a war hero. 

Primus, he was bored. 

Until the riot and the infiltration and the prisoner escape. Then Bumblebee found himself outnumbered, outclassed, and staring into Shockwave's lone optic. 

Only Megatron would have been more terrifying. 

Now would be a good time to run, Bumblebee thought, ice sloughing through his lines and a tremble wobbling his actuators. 

He stood his ground, like an idiot. He was a member of the Elite Guard, frag it! He would not be--

Whoa!

Shockwave was fast, faster than Bumblebee remembered. He hit the wall with a frame-jarring splat, chassis crumpled inward from the blow. His optical feed fritzed, gyros unstablized and he slid toward the floor. He tried to right himself, get his pedes underneath him, but his limbs flopped about like a landed fish. 

Digits curled around his throat, pulling him up, scraping his backplate against the wall behind him in a jarring shriek of metal on metal. Bumblebee twisted; Shockwave's grip tightened. 

Shockwave leaned closer, optic inches from Bumblebee's faceplate, until all Bumblebee could see was that eerie, Decepticon red. 

“Hmm,” Shockwave said, like a scientist studying a new specimen. “You'll do.” 

Bumblebee powered up his stingers, not liking that look in Shockwave's optic one bit. His spark clenched in fear. 

He'd heard about what happened to Blurr. 

He really should have run when he had the chance.


	46. More Than Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: OptimusxSideswipe  
> Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: sparksmut, past twincest, fairly purple prose   
> Description: Between the both of them, they perpetuated an illusion of peace.

They never spoke. Words would shatter the illusion. Action meant more as did the desperate need leaking from their energy fields. 

It was hard enough to find privacy. Humans were everywhere, they had no personal space, and the humans always noticed if they snuck off alone. So Sideswipe cherished what little time they could find to sneak away. 

Here, in the shadows of a destroyed human city, a miasma of grief and reluctant victory clung to them like a coating of ash. Optimus was already waiting and Sideswipe went into his embrace with charge crackling over his armor, and his spark aching within his chassis. 

Optimus held out a servo, his battlemask sliding aside, energy field emitting tangled bursts of need and sorrow and relief. Sideswipe's own was a haunting mix of regret and stale sparkache that never grew easier to bear. Not even with time and Cybertronian's functioned for a long time. 

Optimus was larger, taller, bulkier. Sideswipe climbed atop him, straddling his lap, feeling dwarfed by the Prime and all the gladder for it. Broad and burly was different, not at all the same as his own, and that, too, was part of the illusion. 

Sideswipe drew air through his vents, olfactory sensors taking in the scents of hot metal, munitions, Earth road grit and synthetic wax, a unique combination of odors specific to Prime and another difference so desperately important. Even better with Optimus' servos resting on his hips, holding him in place with their weight alone, pulling him closer with a resonating slide of metal on metal. 

Surges of charge crawled between them, licking across Sideswipe's circuits and visibly dancing over Prime's plating. Pleasure lit across his sensory net in a blaze. Sideswipe groaned, optics offlining, his own servos reaching out, hooking digits in the many protrusions of Optimus' chassis. The human-designed kibble was strangely complementary on Prime's protoform. 

Optimus' digits flexed on his pelvic array, pushing into the gaps between armor plating, touching the flexible cables and lines beneath. Sideswipe arched closer to the Prime, wordlessly demanding more, his own ex-vents caressing the heated armor beneath him. 

The closeness of another mech was wonderful. The knowing touches, the skilled caresses, the push and pull of charge between them was soothing in all the best kinds of ways. Sideswipe felt overload building within him on a steady, heated wave. 

But it wasn't enough. It was never enough and no one knew that better than Optimus, because his cravings were the same. 

This time, Optimus' chestplate was the first to crack, mechanisms sliding apart and up, until the cool heat of his spark washed over Sideswipe's anterior. 

He onlined his optics, the first sensation of awe passing over and through him as always. Optimus' spark was a roil of blue-white energies, made even stronger by the presence of the matrix he now carried. A tendril of energy licked out, seeking, and Sideswipe's own chestplates parted in response. 

He rose up, supported by Optimus' servos to account for the height difference, spark energies lashing out, eager to connect again. He heard Optimus groan, felt the tightening of those massive servos on his frame, which creaked warningly. And then their sparks collided, energies threading together. 

Awareness suspended, heat and light and pleasure overtaking it all. Sideswipe's vocalizer glitched; his spark throbbed. It lasted forever and no time at all. There was a sense of completion, for one achingly familiar moment, because Optimus was Prime and all Cybertronians and only himself as well. He tasted of the Ancients and of Prime and of a tiny bit of the Allspark. 

Overload took Sideswipe in the space of a sparkbeat. The designation his spark called wasn't Optimus', but then, Optimus didn't shout for Sideswipe either. This, too, wasn't unexpected, though the relief of war's end was tempered by the grief that followed release. 

Their chestplates closed on automatic and Sideswipe sagged, resting his helm on Optimus' chassis, feeling the thrum of the powerful spark beneath. His systems hummed as he clung to that evanescent feeling of unity. 

He didn't need to say thank you. Optimus already understood that, too.


	47. Groove With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: JazzxBluestreak  
> Universe: Transformers: Prime, pre-series  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: In which Jazz is irresistible and Bluestreak takes the bait.

“You're not dancin'?” Jazz asks as he plunks himself down next to Bluestreak, high grade sloshing out over his fingers in attractive rivulets of blue.   
  
Bluestreak ducks his helm, hiding behind his high grade. “No. I don't really... uh... do that.”   
  
He knows, even before the last syllable leaves his vocalizer, that it's not an answer Jazz is going to accept. Especially when the saboteur lifts his hand and laps up the spilled energon in quick, sweeping slides of his glossa. Bluestreak's fans kick on.   
  
“You tell me no but your optics carry a different story,” Jazz retorts and leans closer, smelling of high gloss and hot metal and things that make Bluestreak's engine rev. “C'mon, little Blue. Why doncha dance with me?”   
  
The temptation is very real and very, very powerful. Bluestreak feels his sensory panels twitch at the teasing embrace of Jazz's energy field.   
  
“I can't,” he forces out, and gulps down his high grade in two strong pulls, hoping the burn might distract him from the heat of his own interest.   
  
It doesn't.   
  
“Sure ya can,” Jazz purrs, visor flashing a seductive hue. “I won't mind one bit.”   
  
Bluestreak's faceplates heat. “No, I mean... I can't,” he clarifies and squirms in his chair, sending a helpless glance to the tiny room at large but no one's coming to his aid. “I don't know how.”   
  
Jazz grins, a husky laugh echoing in his chassis. “Then now's a good time to learn. It isn't hard.” He leaps up, bouncing on his pedes, offering a hand to Bluestreak, wriggling his fingers in invitation.   
  
Bluestreak shifts in place, optics darting left and right but returning, time and again, to those tempting fingers. “But--”  
  
“Ya gonna leave me hangin'?” Jazz asks, his lipplates curling into a most delectable pout that probably helps him get his way all the time and frag, but Bluestreak's pretty susceptible to it.   
  
He cycles a ventilation and rises to his pedes. “Okay,” Bluestreak says slowly. “But if I crush your pedes...”   
  
“I won't hold it against ya.”   
  
Fingers clasp around his own and Bluestreak stifles a yelp as Jazz, smaller but no less strong, proceeds to drag him to the dance floor.   
  
“Blaster, my mech,” Jazz shouts, loud enough to be heard over the music somehow, “give me a good beat to get my aft groovin'.”   
  
Blaster, on the other side of the room, grins and salutes Jazz. “Whatever the boss-mech wants.”   
  
The music shifts then from a decadent beat to something a bit more pep and sultry, though how that's possible, Bluestreak doesn't even know.   
  
Jazz drags him to dead center and then stops, whirling to face Bluestreak. “Now,” he says with the biggest grin Bluestreak has seen. “Listen. And feel.” He does a full-frame roll that's quite possibly the hottest thing Bluestreak has ever laid optics on.   
  
He may, also, be drooling.   
  
“You're way more flexible than I am,” Bluestreak argues, feeling rather awkward and stiff as he stands there and Jazz starts to move. “I can't possibly do what you do. Or look half as good doing it. Or even a fourth as good. Or—”  
  
“Shh,” Jazz says, though pleasure ripples in his energy field. “You'd be surprised what you can do. Listen. And feel,” he repeats.   
  
Bluestreak sighs but listens. And feels. It's hard not to. The music is pulsing in the room, he can feel it through his pedes and against his sensory panels. It's loud enough that it's vibrating through his frame and through his spark chamber.   
  
Jazz moves closer, one pede tapping to the beat, laying his hand on Bluestreak's chestplate and Bluestreak doesn't mind one bit. One finger taps out the rhythm but Bluestreak really notices the heat of his hand the most.   
  
“C'mon,” Jazz purrs. “Move with me.”   
  
“I can't,” Bluestreak cries, a bit at a loss. He tries and he's stiff and it's not good at all.   
  
Other mechs are watching, too. Of course, they are. He and Jazz are in the middle of the room, the middle of the floor, and when Jazz dances, mechs and femmes watch. Because Jazz likes the attention, he looks good doing it, and more than one interface system kicks into life. Bluestreak should know. His own has been pinging him for the past several kliks.   
  
“Hey,” Jazz says, other hand rising to cup Bluestreak's faceplate. “Don't worry about them. Optics on me. Look at me. All right?”   
  
Easier said than done, but Bluestreak obeys.   
  
“Good,” Jazz purrs and both of his hands drop to Bluestreak's hips, a light grasp that prickles sensation across Bluestreak's sensory net. He shivers.   
  
“Now,” Jazz continues, glossa wetting his lips in a quick flick that Bluestreak watches maybe a bit too closely. “Move.”   
  
And Bluestreak does. Easy enough with Jazz's hands on his hips, pulling and pushing and guiding him to the beat. He still feels awkward, but if he concentrates more on Jazz, it's easier to ignore that. He's no dancer, he'll never be a dancer, but if trying gets Jazz's hands on him, he's willing to keep going.   
  
“Good.” Jazz says, frame twisting and sliding, his hands following as he moves to the beat, easing himself behind Bluestreak, pressing their frames tightly together.   
  
Bluestreak can feel him moving, his own frame quick to mimic the action, spurred on by the purr of Jazz's engine and crackle of static between them. His sensor net lights up with charge, eager arousal spilling into his field before Bluestreak can rein it in.   
  
“I'm flattered,” Jazz purrs, his hands still on Bluestreak's hips, guiding him into every flex and sway. “S'that an offer?” He ex-vents hot against the back of Bluestreak's sensory panel.   
  
A rather undignified squeak escapes Bluestreak. “If you want it to be...?” He's actually not sure if he's asking or telling.   
  
Jazz laughs and it's a wholly amused sound, lacking all traces of derision. His fingers do a little dip, sliding into the barely-there gap in Bluestreak's hip structure, and stroke a thick bundle of sensitive cables.   
  
“I do,” Jazz murmurs, right against the mediate ridge where his sensory panels are braced.   
  
That coil of heat in Bluestreak's innards combusts into a full-out firestorm. He shudders from helm to pede, completely losing all trace of rhythm. His hands shoot down, clamping on Jazz's, though he's not sure whether it's to remove them or keep them in place.   
  
“Not here,” Bluestreak groans. His interface systems have other ideas like, say, dropping to his knees and popping his panels – all of them.   
  
“Course not.” Jazz's fingers give a little squeeze that sends shivers up Bluestreak's backstrut. “Place and time, Little Blue. And I'm all yours.”   
  
Bluestreak doesn't hesitate. “How about my berth and now? I'm sure Hound's going to stay with Ironhide and-” Fingers tap-tap against a side panel and Bluestreak's stutter into silence.   
  
“Sounds perfect,” Jazz says.   
  
Bluestreak all but whimpers his agreement.


	48. Word to the Wise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe   
> Universe: Bayverse, pre-films  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Sideswipe has yet to learn one very important lesson: Sunstreaker is always right.

“What did I tell you?” Sunstreaker's demand came out sharp and irritated, kind of like his emotions right now.   
  
Sideswipe was a woebegone clump of red armor in the chair across from him, one that didn't bother to lift his helm from the tabletop. “Never stick your spike in crazy.”   
  
“Never,” Sunstreaker emphasized, and leaned forward, pinning his brother with a fierce glare. “That's right. And why don't we stick our spikes in crazy?”   
  
“It multiplies,” came the recited answer, albeit muffled by his faceplant into the table.   
  
“And?”   
  
“Never lets go.”   
  
“And?” Sunstreaker prompted, frustration only growing.   
  
Sideswipe clunked his helm against the table. “It's not my fault!” he wailed, energy field releasing a sharp burst of indignation and a fair dose of shame. “He didn't look crazy.”   
  
Sunstreaker snorted. “They never do.”   
  
“And he had the sexiest aft I have ever seen. No lie.”   
  
Sighing, Sunstreaker sat back in his chair, rolling his optics.   
  
“Big, purple optics,” Sideswipe continued without any prompting this time, his vocals taking on a dreamy sigh. “Rich black and red paint. And all the best high grade.”  
  
“...You glitch!” Sunstreaker snapped out his leg, pede colliding with Sideswipe's shin in a kick hard enough to dent metal. “You just wanted the high grade!” He kicked Sideswipe again for good measure.  
  
“Ow! Frag it, Sunny!” Sideswipe scooted his chair over, an attempt to get out of reach. “Haven't I been dented enough?”  
  
Sunstreaker scowled. “Not in my opinion.”   
  
Sideswipe lifted his helm. “I can feel the love,” he drawled.   
  
“You're going to feel my pede up your aft if you don't shut the frag up!”   
  
“Ooo. Sounds kinky.”   
  
Sunstreaker kicked him again, because he could and Sideswipe should have known it was coming anyway, the selfish glitch. Sideswipe's chair made an obnoxious noise against the floor as he scooted several more feet away. Juuuuust out of reach.   
  
“You are a sparkless shell without any sympathy,” Sideswipe grumbled. “I could use a hug but no, my darling brother would rather abuse me.”   
  
Sunstreaker's glare could have peeled paint. “This is all your fault.”   
  
Sideswipe sighed, helm impacting the table again with a solid thunk. “It always is.”   
  
“Because you never listen to me.”   
  
“In one audial and out the other,” Sideswipe agreed.   
  
Sunstreaker felt a lot like banging his helm against the wall. “How long do we have to hide here?”   
  
“However long it takes Dead End to forget I exist.”   
  
Of course it would.   
  
Sunstreaker sagged in his chair, resisting the urge to leap across the table and throttle the other half of his spark. “I hate you.”   
  
“And yet you're stuck with me.”   
  
“Thanks for the reminder.”   
  
“What else are brothers for?”   
  
Sunstreaker decided it was better not to answer that. He might say something he would regret.   
  
“Shut up and recharge,” he snapped.   
  
Sideswipe laughed.   
  
Sunstreaker sighed.   
  
The next few vorns were going to suck slag.


	49. Speechless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jazz/Bluestreak  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: There's a Bluestreak on his berth and Jazz had no idea how he got there.

When Jazz dragged himself to his quarters, put in his code, disabled his special security, and slunked into the room, he did not expect anything but dark silence to greet him.

Instead, there was a Bluestreak on his berth and Jazz honestly had no idea how the gunner got there. Though he was far from complaining.

It was like a 'facing fantasy come to life.

"Bluestreak?" he spluttered, startled enough that he stumbled back, aft hitting the door. "What are you- how did you- I mean-"

Words. He needed them and he didn't have them, much like an explanation.

Bluestreak grinned, doorwings performing an energetic flutter that no other Praxian on base would be caught using. It was too adorable. "Well, Sideswipe told me that Smokescreen told him that Tracks said that Blaster knew a certain someone had an interest in me."

He rose from the berth, all big blue optics and coy grin and inviting field that tingled enticingly against Jazz's own. "Apparently, that mech is you, though what I can't figure out is why I had to find out from the gossip chain. Could have said something, you know."

Jazz's mouth worked but no sounds emerged. At least, no intelligent ones. He was still stuck on the fact that Bluestreak was here.

"You... I... Prowl..." He made a helpless gesture that explained everything and nothing all at once.

Bluestreak arched an orbital ridge. "How do you think I got in here? Luck?" He slid closer to Jazz, each step filled with predatory intent. "Who else could hack your lock? I guess you could say he gave you his blessing. Or me. Take your pick." He shrugged.

Jazz's processor flat-lined. Prowl had helped Bluestreak sneak into Jazz's quarters for the sake of a midnight rendezvous? The very same mech who had lectured Jazz just last week for his inability to take the Autobot Code as anything but a guideline?

Bluestreak chuckled, his humor infectious. "Did I break you?"

Jazz's vents stuttered to life, vocals spitting static.

Doorwings lifted, purposefully enticing, as the overhead lights caught the sheen of plating that had been polished to perfection. "Or do you want me to go?"

"No!"

Jazz lurched forward and his faceplate burned, his denial coming out with too much force.

"I mean," Jazz said, trying to find his charm from wherever he'd suddenly misplaced it. "You're more'n welcome to stay."

Bluestreak grinned. "For a minute there, I thought you'd glitched. Then I would have to call Ratchet and he would have thrown something and blamed it on Prowl and none of us would get what we want."

"Well, maybe ya just have that effect on me," Jazz purred and closed the distance between them, grabbing Bluestreak's hand and pulling it toward his lips. "So how about that offer?"

The rolling desire in Bluestreak's field was all the answer Jazz needed.

He definitely owed Prowl big time.

And, apparently, Sideswipe, Smokescreen, Tracks and Blaster, too.


	50. Optics On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: SunstreakerxProwl  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: When it comes to Sunstreaker, Prowl likes what he sees, and Sunstreaker knows it

_Take a break_ , Jazz said. _Stretch out your cables. Get your energon pumping._

_Go to the training room._

Prowl should have known by the thinly veiled mischief that Jazz was plotting. Then again, Jazz was always plotting.

Usually, last thing last shift, the training room was deserted. Very few Autobots stirred before the dawn unless it was required of them, and even then grudgingly. There were a few notable exceptions, but said bots weren't the sort to be found in the training room in the first place.

This morning was different and Prowl couldn't take his optics off the sight.

He circled around the ring, whisper-quiet with all the stealth he had learned and in turn, taught to Jazz. And Prowl watched, drinking in the view.

Gleaming armor was polished to perfection, catching the overhead lights with each shift of plating. Elegant movements declared martial forms with fluid skill, shifting from one stance into the next with not a wasted effort. The soft hiss of hydraulics and the scrape of pedes against matting filled the air. And the blue glow of optics, deep in concentration, shone from a faceplate devoid of the usual scowl.

Sunstreaker was beautiful.

Of course, the fragged glitch _knew_ that but it was no less true. Whomever had designed his frame had been an artist.

He had to know Prowl was watching. Sunstreaker had a keen situational awareness, nearly on par with Red Alert. But he gave no sign that he knew Prowl was there, which meant he could watch to his spark's content. For all his vanity, Sunstreaker was surprisingly private about certain things. His training routines were one of these things.

On and off the battlefield, Sunstreaker was a vicious warrior with a short temper and a sharper glossa. He gave the impression of a mech who could not be tamed.

There were only a select few who knew any different. Prowl considered himself lucky to be one of these few.

Sunstreaker twisted and spun across the ring, arms whipping through the air, vents audibly cycling. His expression was one of deep focus and it was the closest to calm Prowl had ever seen him except for the one rare, unguarded moment of wistful thinking.

It was a moment never to be repeated, occurring when Sunstreaker had come across something in Teletraan-1's archives. Prowl never did find out what it was. He was waiting for Sunstreaker to tell him.

Sunstreaker on the battlefield was a terrifyingly gorgeous sight to behold, but Prowl rarely got to pay him that much undivided attention. There were other tasks to occupy his processor.

But here, he could watch. Here, Sunstreaker could be focused and the sight of it sent Prowl's own fans to spinning. There was something about seeing a notoriously violent mech tiptoeing toward peace that sent arousal singing through his circuits. Try as he might, Prowl could not keep his vents quiet.

He clasped his arms behind his back to hide their trembling urge to stroke Sunstreaker's armor, entertaining heated thoughts of taking advantage of their semi-privacy. Only Teletraan was watching, and perhaps Red Alert, but neither would mind.

Sunstreaker finished the last routine with a flourish, his field bursting out, filling the room with a smug triumph. His plating rippled, rising and falling like a bird ruffling its feathers, before he turned to face Prowl. He tried to act surprised but like his twin, could never contain his ego.

"Why, Prowl. I didn't see you there." He leaned on the ring's enclosure, all angles and lazy grace, his weight causing the thin metal chains to creak alarmingly. "Taking a break?"

Prowl performed a systems check, not that it helped. The heat was still there, flushing desire through his lines. "By some definition of the terms, yes."

Sunstreaker smirked. "Can I help you?" He flicked a hand over his right shoulder, brushing away an imaginary piece of dust that was in truth a calculated move to draw attention to his immaculate frame. "You look a little charged."

Prowl inclined his helm. "You know very well that I am. So get down here and do something about it."

"I have a better idea," Sunstreaker retorted, arching an orbital ridge at him. "Why don't you come up here and _make me_?" The request came out as a purr.

It also sounded like a challenge.

Prowl debated for 3.27 seconds. Jazz had told him to have some fun. This would count, wouldn't it?

"If you insist."

He climbed into the ring, vaulting over the barrier with ease. Sunstreaker backed up a few strides to give him room.

The warrior's smirk widened. "Don't pretend you're not aching for me right now," Sunstreaker said, vocals full of an arrogance that was just shy of obnoxious.

Prowl's field flexed. "I would never resort to lying."

Sunstreaker shifted into a defensive stance, one hand lifting in a come-hither gesture. "And Sideswipe says you have no charm. I do believe that was a compliment."

Prowl slipped into his own stance, though his was a bit more offensive. He would wipe that smirk off Sunstreaker's face and then have the warrior screaming his name.

Sunstreaker always did get more vocal after a work-out.


	51. Blast from the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sideswipe, Vortex, past Vortex/Twins  
> Universe: G1, pre-Earth  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: implied violence and torture, language  
> Description: Vortex walked into his favorite interrogation room, and a ghost from his past smirked right at him.

Interrogator.

That was Vortex's job. He enjoyed it. He was good at it. He got paid – well, he used to get paid. Now he just did it because he could. It was a valuable skill.

Autobot. Decepticon. Neutral. It didn't matter. It was fun to pick them apart, strip them down, get to their core.

Interrogating was an art.

It was more than causing fear or pain or both. It was more than threats or intimidation or sweet, sweet trickery. It was not just asking the right questions, but getting the right answers. Getting the real truth, and not the false truth.

Prisoners lied. Prisoners wanted to live. Prisoners had things they wanted to protect, or personal honor, or personal limits. Prisoners had reasons to lie their afts off, if only to stop the pain.

So there was an art to interrogation. No two prisoners were alike. Pain made some defiant. Humiliation was shaken off by others. Some held their secrets with less regard than their pride. Some would give anything, would _die_ for their cause. Vortex had to look at his victim, figure out how they ticked, before he could even start to tear them apart.

There was no step by step guide to train an interrogator. The good ones, _really_ good ones, were sparked for it.

And Vortex?

He was the best.

Sometimes, Onslaught brought him toys because he was bored and had nothing better to do. Those mechs and femmes were easily breakable and Vortex played with them just to wile away the hours. They didn't have any information he needed, no secrets that would help win the war, but they were still fun to strip down.

Vortex liked secrets, no matter their origin. Secret lovers, secret sins, he hoarded them like precious metals, more valuable than chits. Vortex liked to catalog all the secrets he'd learned, poke at them later, laugh to himself.

Sometimes, though, Vortex was given a _real_ task. They plunked him down in front of some Autobot prisoner, or Neutral with the unfortunate luck to have wandered into Decepticon territory. Occasionally, he even got a Decepticon suspected of being an Autobot in disguise. Those were the most fun.

One day, Vortex walked into his favorite interrogating room, a whistle in his vents, and cheer in his field, carefully dampened so that his prisoner would sense it. The Decepticons had caught themselves an Autobot scouting party and were eager to see just what kind of intelligence they could gain from their prisoners before granting them a long and entertaining execution.

Vortex had been given one of the soldiers, a frontliner and warrior by all rights. They were the most fun to break because they didn't fear pain, didn't care about pride, and laughed off any kind of blackmail.

He strode into the room, anticipation a hot and heavy curl in his lines, only to come to a complete halt as his optics fell on his victim.

Oh, Primus' rusted undergarments. Not this Autobot.

"Hey, Tex," Sideswipe said with a cheery, smug grin, his helm tilted back. "Fancy running into you here."

He lounged in his chair, draped in chains six ways from Moonbase, and didn't seem to care one whit about his circumstances.

The door slammed shut behind Vortex. The ghost from his past continued to smirk.

"You're supposed to be dead," he said flatly.

Sideswipe chuckled, a twinkle in his optics. "The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

"Why aren't you dead?" Vortex gritted out and no, that wasn't a whine at all.

"Sorry to disappoint." Sideswipe lifted his arms, unsurprisingly no longer chained to the floor though wrists yet shackled one to the other, and brought them behind his head. He was the very picture of redolence. "But I just couldn't pass on without sayin' goodbye to my favorite rotary."

He had the audacity to wink.

Somewhere in the distance, Vortex heard an explosion. The base shuddered. Alarm klaxons began to sound, the commander screaming for all mechs to report to battle on all open comms.

Frag.

"Oh," Sideswipe said, frame shaking with silent laughter. "That's probably Sunstreaker. He missed you, too."

Frag them all to the Pit. Vortex snarled.

They always stuck him with the fragging crazies.


	52. Cuddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: SunstreakerxSideswipe, Ensemble cameo  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: twincest cuddles, language  
> Description: Sunstreaker has a bad day and Sideswipe is missing. Go figure.

Sunstreaker wakes up from recharge alone, the berth cold and Sideswipe a distant speck in his spark. And he knows, just knows, that today is going to be slag.

And of course, he's right.

First thing, he's out of his special wax and has to borrow from Tracks who demands an arm, a leg, and a drawing in exchange. Fragger.

On his way to get his morning cube, he runs into Slingshot mouthing off about air superiority in the rec room again. Obligated to prove him wrong, Sunstreaker shows the stupid jet just how stupid jets can be.

Ironhide isn't impressed but the brig is full of brawling minibots from the night before and no one wants or is able to cover Sunstreaker's patrol.

He gets two weeks of rust-scrubbing from the Ark's hull instead. Sunstreaker would have preferred the brig.

His patrol partner is Bluestreak, of course. Normally, Sunstreaker doesn't mind Bluestreak's chatter, it's something to fill the silence when he's in a less than charitable mood, but today, every word out of the gunner's mouth rubs his audials raw. He's two steps close to throttling Bluestreak when the sky opens up.

The rain, as the humans would say, is just icing on the cake.

Not just rain either, but a torrential downpour accompanied by hail and lashing winds.

By the end of his shift, Sunstreaker returns to the Ark a mud-encrusted mess with branches stuck in unfortunate places, including his seams, and an even fouler disposition. There hadn't even been a 'Con or two to work his frustration out on.

Sideswipe, the little fragger, is still nowhere to be found.

Running on empty, Sunstreaker is forced to get a cube before he can wash up. The rec room is, once again, crowded to the brim because it would be too simple for him to get a cube unimpeded. Some dumbaft opens his mouth and makes a comment about the state of Sunstreaker's paintjob.

Jazz, peacemaker that he is, slides in before Sunstreaker can do so much as snarl, offering a smile and a cube and pulsing calm into his energy field.

Snatching the cube from Jazz's hand, Sunstreaker whirls around and makes a beeline for the exit. He's dirty and tired and annoyed and his fragging brother has decided to pull a disappearing act and – blech!

Sunstreaker glares down at his cube. Fossil fuels again? It's the worst of them all. Nothing can hide the gritty aftertaste or the oily way it slithers down his intake.

He forces it down because, again, fuel levels treacherously low thanks to the rain and mud and stomps off to the washracks. Only he's still out of wax and someone has swiped his mail-order cleanser and Sunstreaker is left with the option to use nothing or the stock soap. Hardly a choice at all.

He returns to his shared quarters with Sideswipe, finish streaked, gritty energon on his glossa, and woe be unto his twin if he ever shows up. Sunstreaker punches their code into the panel with undisguised ferocity but the door opens before he manages the final number.

"There you are!" Sideswipe says with undisguised glee, a bright smile on his face. "I thought you'd be back by now."

Sunstreaker twitches. "Do you have any idea what kind of day I've had?" he demands, stomping into their quarters. "Where have you been?"

"You were out of wax." Sideswipe follows him in, cheerful energy field fizzling flat. "Since I had the day off, I thought I'd get you some more. What happened?"

Sunstreaker throws himself on the berth. "Nothing," he grunts and turns his helm to look at his twin. "You really bought me some wax?"

"I said it, didn't I?" Sideswipe gives him a strange look. "What the frag's the matter with you?"

Indignation leaves Sunstreaker in a huff. He reaches out a hand. "Come here."

"Why? So you can pound me? You got that look in your optics."

"Sideswipe, frag it, come here!"

"Okay. Sheesh." Sideswipe climbs onto the berth, stretching out beside him, and the rest of the tension in Sunstreaker's frame bleeds away.

"You are in a mood, aren't you?" Sideswipe grumbles, but he doesn't move away, just presses closer until they are plating to plating, his backplate molded against Sunstreaker's chestplate, the steady vibrations of his engine reverberating through Sunstreaker's frame.

Sunstreaker curves an arm over Sideswipe, keeping him pinned. "Thank you."

His twin's energy field stirs with relief and exasperation and affection all rolled into one. "You are one crazy glitch," he mutters, but folds his hand over Sunstreaker's anyway. "Love you, too, bro."

* * *


	53. Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: RatchetxProwl  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: mild violence and language  
> Description: This is clearly Jazz and Wheeljack's fault, Ratchet thinks.

"Get out of your office, Jazz said."

"Have some adventure, Wheeljack said."

"I'm going to kill him," Ratchet and Prowl snarled in perfect unison, one that was accompanied by two matching bursts of aggravation and fury in their energy fields.

"We could always look on the bright side," Prowl said in one of his usual and inappropriate bursts of humor. "It's not Decepticons."

Ratchet gave his lover a sour look. In fact, he probably could have melted slag from the force of his glare. "You call this an improvement?" he demanded, flinging a hand in sharp gesture. Well, he tried to anyway.

It was rather difficult for him to move with all of the glue sticking to his frame, covering him from helm to pede except for a few lucky limbs.

"How does something like this even happen?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," Ratchet half-snarled, tossing his partner another fierce glare. "You were the one who decided to throw yourself in front of it."

Prowl's doorwings flicked. Well, one of them did. The other was too immobilized by the flood of glue.

"There were innocent lives at stake," Prowl argued.

"There are always lives at stake!" Ratchet huffed a ventilation. He was growing hot, over and out, most of his vents blocked by the sticky tide until he was forced to take huge, gulping draughts through his mouth. "So you thought the best option was to make your last stand? Did you even calculate it?"

"Of course I did," Prowl retorted, but there was an edge to his tone, a glint to his chevron, a muted downturn of his doorwings that hinted he was, quite possibly, fibbing. Ratchet knew his partner far too well for fall for it, even if everyone else thought Prowl would never break any rules.

Ratchet rolled his optics. "Any word from the Ark?"

There was a moment of silence.

"Prowl?"

"If by word you mean 'uproarious laughter that has yet to stop' then yes, there's been word," Prowl said. "Someone forgot to mention that Wheeljack had the comms today."

And if Wheeljack was giggling his aft off, it was probably because he'd invited Jazz in to chortle over their predicament. The fraggers.

Which meant they'd get around to sending help.

Eventually.

Until then, Ratchet would have to stand here, literally glued in place, while the humans emerged from hiding to gawk.

Ratchet worked his jaw because really, nothing else was moving. This glue dried ridiculously fast, almost as though Wheeljack had designed the formula. "For the record," he said. "This is your fault."

Prowl sighed. "It usually is."


	54. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: SpringerxBumblebee  
> Universe: Bayverse  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: Two lovers find one another again.

He's barely off the ramp before a yellow-plated mech launches himself through the air, happiness bleeding through their fledgling bond.   
  
Springer's arms open to catch the smaller bot, instantly enfolding Bumblebee in his embrace. Bee squirms in his arms, one hand reaching up and locking around the back of Springer's head. He drags their forehelms together with a resounding click of metal on metal, his optics blazing blue and bright.   
  
“ _You made it,_ ” Bee transmits over the telepathic link now formed between them.   
  
Joy makes Springer's spark flip on its axis, and he easily ignores the catcalls of his fellow Wreckers, Hot Rod's teasing, and Bumblebee's team's goodnatured ribbing.   
  
“Vocalizer still shorting out, I see,” Springer says, one hand clamping down on Bee's aft to support his bonded as the other settles just below those adorable, perky wings of his.   
  
“ _It comes and goes_ ,” Bumblebee replies, pressing their helms together with more force, as though trying to meld them together through pressure alone. “ _We didn't think there were any more survivors_.”   
  
Springer chuckles. “We're Wreckers. Of course we made it.”   
  
Bee's grip on his head tightens, enough to dent had Springer not retained his battle armor. The war might be over but he's no fool. _“Missed you_.”   
  
Some of the humor fades, replaced by a wave of loneliness that speaks of the vorns of separation between them, and the last time Springer saw his bonded, right before Megatron nearly offlined him.   
  
His optics dim at the painful memory and Springer understands why Bee is clinging so tightly. “ _I know_ ,” Springer says, shifting to the internal transmission.   
  
_“Don't leave again_.”   
  
“ _Never_.” And this time, it doesn't have to sound like a lie.

***


	55. Big Guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bluestreak, Megatron, Hound  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: In which Bluestreak likes big guns and Megatron is outraged.

It seemed impossible that so much violence could be leashed but here he was, the Slagmaker himself, bound and chained in the Autobot brig.   
  
It was a temporary state of affairs, until a proper trade could be arranged. The Autobot's didn't have the resources to keep him contained for an extensive period and Prime wouldn't sanction an execution.   
  
Which left an exchange.   
  
Acquiring Megatron had been a stroke of luck, purely accidental. Or perhaps intentional. Either Megatron hadn't meant to get between Starscream and his target, or the treacherous Seeker had aimed for his leader in the first place.  
  
In the end, Megatron had taken a null ray to the helm, fritzed his neural circuits, and collapsed in an ungainly heap.   
  
Right at Prime's feet.   
  
Starscream screeched a retreat, claiming that he was now the leader of the Decepticons, and Megatron's loyaler soldiers couldn't get past the combined forces of Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Cliffjumper to get to their fallen master.   
  
Soundwave had, however, managed to snatch Ratchet in their abrupt escape. That had been a factor of Ratchet's inability to maintain his own safety when a patient's spark was on the line and his usual bodyguard being said patient.   
  
So. An exchange was imminent.   
  
For now, however, they had a caged beast glaring at them with baleful red optics and a growling, miner's engine. Megatron was draped in chains six ways from Moonbase but he looked no less dangerous, no less feral. Like he was ready to pounce should the opportunity arise and woe be unto the Autobot who stepped into his path. He was coiled, murderous intent, a predator waiting for a tasty snack to wander into his path.   
  
Why the Decepticons would follow him was increasingly obvious. Megatron exuded power and confidence the same way Prime exuded virtue and truth. Megatron was a mech you feared; Prime was a mech you loved.   
  
No wonder they hated each other.   
  
Megatron's frame was scarred and pitted from countless battles. He wore those imperfections like badges of pride. Sunstreaker would shudder at the sight of them, but Megatron's plating was a landscape of stories, each mark a memory of survival.   
  
He didn't move from where they'd left him, arms chained to the wall, his legs clamped in stasis cuffs. His vents were even, controlled, and his optics continued to glow with dangerous intent.   
  
“What the frag are you staring at, little bot?” the Decepticon leader growled, his vocalizer a raspy purr from the dark.   
  
Next to Bluestreak, Hound jumped, startled by the sudden vocalization.   
  
Bluestreak, however, had been waiting for it. He bit back a smirk. “Is there harm in looking?” he asked.   
  
“Bluestreak!” Hound hissed, chastising. They weren't supposed to talk to prisoners.   
  
Megatron laughed, his amusement the sort that mocked rather than agreed. “Am I a sideshow attraction? Since when does Prime send his softer soldiers to serve as my guard?”   
  
Softer? Hah. It would take more than that to offend Bluestreak. Yes, he'd gained a reputation for being cute and innocent. It was hilarious far from the truth. Except for the cute part. He was pretty slagging cute.   
  
“Since I'm one of the few who can shoot you down in half an astrosecond without causing fatal damage,” Bluestreak said.   
  
Hound hissed at him again, like he was two steps from contacting Red Alert just to make Bluestreak stop. But nope. He was having way too much fun.   
  
Megatron scoffed. “Is that so? And that's why you're staring at me in fear? What makes you think you can do it, baby bot?”   
  
Bluestreak's lips twitched. “You mistake fear for curiosity.” He stepped closer to the bars, that hummed at his proximity. “For instance, I can't help but wonder what I feels like to pull your trigger.”   
  
Silence filled the brig. Hound gaped at him.   
  
Bluestreak smirked.   
  
Megatron's optics widened. “Y-you—!” He spluttered.   
  
Inside, Bluestreak was laughing his aft off.   
  
“I am a sniper, after all,” he said and made a pointed effort to look Megatron up and down. “And I've always liked big guns.”   
  
“Th—this is an outrage!” Megatron roared and the chains rattled as he jerked in them. “I'll not be mocked by you! Is this how Autobots treat their prisoners? Get Prime down here right now!”   
  
“Sorry, he's a bit busy right now,” Bluestreak said and turned back toward Hound, who was given him a look stuck between astonishment and amusement.   
  
“I can't decide if you're brave or crazy,” he said.   
  
Bluestreak chuckled. “Can't I be both?” he asked brightly as Megatron continued to howl his outrage.

***


	56. Hating Autobots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Knock Out, Breakdown  
> Universe: Prime  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: Knock Out rants; Breakdown endures.

“I fragging hate Autobots!” Knock Out snarls, throwing both hands into the air as he paces back and forth in the medbay, knocking down anything in his path.   
  
The noisy clomp-clomp of Breakdown following him around seems to punctuate his mood perfectly.   
  
“Hah. Don't we all?” Breakdown says and attacks his backplate with a buffer the very moment Knock Out pauses when he catches sight of his finish in the mirror.   
  
It is atrocious! It is marred! It is imperfection! How dare they?   
  
Another snarl builds up volume. His engine races with a growling, high-performance thrum. If he could only get off this ship and put metal to the pedal, perhaps he could work off this ire.   
  
“Those barbarians!” Knock Out rails, whirling on a pede and stomping back across the floor, kicking at a spare piece of plating that had come loose from his thigh. Fragging Optimus Prime! “With their scraped up paint and their dull finish and their sloppy weld-jobs. Disgusting!”   
  
“They got lucky,” Breakdown says and snags Knock Out's right arm, applying the buffer to it as well. “Next time, I'm gonna smash Bulkhead's face in.”   
  
“Hah. You keep saying that but I haven't seen it happen yet.” Knock Out sniffs and looks down at himself, scowling at the deep gouge in his chestplate. “You see this? It's going to take hours to fix this!”   
  
“Hold still.”   
  
Knock Out huffs but subsides. He does want to get fixed after all. He can't leave the medbay looking like a cheap piece of scrap. He has a reputation to maintain.   
  
This is all Starscream's fault. He should have known better. Robbing from the miserable humans is like extending an open invitation to the Autobots!   
  
“Harumph,” Knock Out says and twitches again.   
  
“Don't let your finish slide either,” Knock Out says, turning his helm to berate his assistant. “I'll not have you walking around looking like some Autobot.”   
  
“Whatever you say, Knock Out,” Breakdown replies, with the audacity to sound amused.   
  
Knock Out rolls his optics and hunches his shoulders. “Don't take that tone with me. And don't miss a spot either!”   
  
“Yes, yes. I heard you the first time.”   
  
Well, at least one thing from today would work out.

***


	57. Worth It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bluestreak, Vortex, unnamed Autobots  
> Universe: G1 AU  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: Vortex walks into a bar and gets turned down flat. Poor Vortex.

“Well,” Vortex drawls as he slides into the empty stool beside the grey Praxian. “What's a cute little 'Bot like you doing in a place like this?”   
  
Doorwings twitch as the mech turns to face him, lips curling upward in a smirk. “Last time I checked, factions didn't matter here.”   
  
Vortex laughs and signals the bartender for a cube of his most violent grade. Which, apparently, is the same thing the Autobot is drinking. The Praxian's got bearings of duryibllium, doesn't he?   
  
“It's more a factor that you look a little out of place than the brand you carry,” Vortex points out, finger jabbing at the happy little Autobot face on the mech's shoulder. “The name's Vortex.”   
  
“I know.” Blue optics rake him from helm to pede. “You've got a reputation around the universe. And not a good one.”   
  
High grade sloshes as a cube is plunked down in front of Vortex. He tosses it back. “Gimme another,” he orders, and wriggles his rotors. “You gonna tell me your name or do I have to give you one?”  
  
“How about 'not a chance on Cybertron'?” the Autobot offers, swiveling around in his stool, one hand curled around a cube. “Or 'you couldn't handle this, 'Con'.”   
  
Vortex's laugh echoes throughout the bar, attracting more than their share of attention. Including that group of Autobots at the back, all glowering Vortex's direction like he was going to defile their little Praxian here in plain sight or something.   
  
“You've got some fire in you, don't you?” Vortex asks and leans against the bar, openly admiring the Autobot. He feels he should know this one, but his databanks keep coming up with a big question mark. “Let me buy you a cube.”   
  
“Oh, I think I can buy my own.” The cute Autobot slides off his stool, doorwings flickering at Vortex as though taunting him for wanting what he can't have. “But maybe if you're lucky, you'll walk out of here alive.” His helm tilts pointedly toward the table of Autobots, all of whom are bristling with menace.   
  
Vortex isn't worried. Sure he's outnumbered. Sure Ons told him that the next time he got jailed he wouldn't get bailed out. Sure this is just the sort of thing that Megatron frowns upon in their current state of uneasy truce.   
  
But this cheeky little Praxian might just be worth the risk.   
  
Vortex watches the doorwinged mech all but saunter out of the bar, high-fiving his fellow Autobots on the way out.   
  
He'll call round one to the Autobot. This time. But he better watch out. Because the cute Praxian is in Vortex's sights, and he hasn't lost a single mark yet.   
  
The game is on.

***


	58. Reckless Behavior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are an open secret, no matter how circumspect they try to be. (G1, OptimusxSideswipexSunstreaker)

“I can't decide who's more reckless!” Ratchet snarls as he slams a handful of tools onto the tray between Sunstreaker and Sideswipe's medberths. On Sideswipe's other side is Optimus Prime, immobile from the waist down but otherwise, unharmed.   
  
They are, all three of them, scrapped to the Pit and back. But it's nothing Ratchet can't fix. Nothing they won't survive. All in all, it's another day in the Ark's medbay.   
  
“Do you know that I spend more than seventy percent of my supplies on you three!” Ratchet shouts, hands waving in the air wildly, but gentle as they attack the seeping gash on Sunstreaker's mid-section.   
  
Sideswipe, more than a little amused, tries and fails to hide his laugh. “Only seventy? We must be doing something wrong. Ow!” Head ringing from the blow, Sideswipe tosses Ratchet a wounded look, which fails to garner some sympathy.   
  
“Why I even bother I don't know!” Ratchet continues without a moment's pause, providing entertainment to everyone else in the medbay, whose minor injuries are being tended by Hoist and Wheeljack, the latter of which always acquires some hesitation from the patients involved.   
  
“I fix you, you run out there and get scrapped on purpose!” the medic snarls, punctuating his anger with bangs and hand-waves and welding.   
  
Sideswipe's so used to it by now that he can recite Ratchet's diatribe by spark.  
  
He turns his helm toward his twin, whose optics are dim from the sedatives. It's a good thing, since Sunstreaker's the worst off considering Menasor had stepped on him. And that was after he'd gotten between Starscream and Bluestreak.   
  
Sideswipe reaches out, brushing his fingers over Sunstreaker's hand, and feels the warm surge of affection and relief across their bond. Sunstreaker's lips twitch in that half-smile, half-sneer he's managed to perfect and then he slips off into recharge, at ease in Ratchet's care like no one else's.   
  
Ratchet's background ranting is music to Sideswipe's audials. He turns his helm to the other side, where a dim-opticked Optimus Prime is giving his Chief Medic a most indulgent look. It's that mushy look he always gives those in his chain of command, that speaks volumes of his pride and faith in his Autobots.   
  
But then he turns his attention to Sideswipe, looking briefly past him to check on Sunstreaker before focusing on Sideswipe again. There's more than just indulgence in his optics now. There's affection and relief, too. A bit of commiseration, also, as Ratchet's ranting gains volume and amusement from the other Autobots.   
  
Optimus' much longer arm stretches across the space between their berths, tapping against Sideswipe's hip in question. It's easy enough for Sideswipe to slide his hand down – both of them escaped uninjured – and curl his fingers with Optimus'. He squeezes once or twice, just to reassure their Prime, and then lets go.   
  
Their relationship is one of those well-known secrets. No one acknowledges it aloud, but Ironhide gives Prime all these knowing looks and Ratchet mutters subvocally and Prowl knows better than to give them too many opposing schedules and Red Alert grumbles about security risks and Elita One keeps sending Sideswipe tips and tricks that kind of frighten him.   
  
So everyone knows but still, they try to be circumspect. As circumspect as Sideswipe is capable of anyway. Sunstreaker has no problems keeping his mouth shut but Sideswipe wants to shout the truth to the world sometimes. If only to remind Megatron to keep his grubby paws off.   
  
Yeah, Prime waves it off, but Sideswipe's seen it. Megatron takes every chance he can get to sneak in a grope or two, pervy 'Con. It frags Sunstreaker off something serious, which explains a good portion of their prior residences in the medbay. Because if Sunstreaker's going after old Buckethead, Sideswipe's right beside him.   
  
Optimus' lectures about getting in over their helms are about as well-received as Ratchet's.   
  
“Gotta stake our claim, Boss,” Sideswipe likes to tell him with a smirk.   
  
Sunstreaker doesn't bother with words. He just tackles Optimus as soon as they are released and proceeds to frag him into the berth. Sideswipe's content to watch through the first overload, happily stroking his own spike until they give him an opening to join in the fun.   
  
Ratchet usually has to fix those dings and scrapes and dents afterward, too. Though instead of yelling, he smirks and gives them all knowing looks while telling Optimus he's glad their Prime is taking the time to relax.   
  
There isn't anything as adorable as the sight of Optimus snapping his mask closed to conceal the embarrassment on his face.   
  
Speaking of...   
  
Sideswipe turns a blinding grin on Optimus. “Later,” he says with a cheeky wink and the rumble of interest from their Prime is audible to pretty much everyone.   
  
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Ratchet plants himself between their berths, blocking their view, waving a handful of static bandages at the both of them. He's giving them the stink optic in alternating intervals, now that Sunstreaker's down for the count and unreceptive to his ire. “No interfacing shenanigans tonight!”   
  
Sideswipe chuckles, letting the medic's ranting wash over and through him. Optimus is offering that stupid indulgent expression again while Sideswipe gets comfortable. It's going to be a long afternoon, crammed in this medbay with his lover and his brother and his Autobot family so he ought to get some recharge while he can.   
  
After all, he won't be getting any tonight. 

***


	59. Privilege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, being a noble has all the best perks, including winning a spot in the berth of the Lord Prime and High Protector. (MegatronxMirage, Bayverse pre2007)

Some orns, it's a slagging good time to be a noble. They get all the great opportunities.   
  
Only peripherally does Mirage recognize the couple on the other side of the berth, the Lord Prime and his chosen consort for the cycle. The majority of Mirage's attention is saved for the mech beneath him, all solid plating and angled lines and fierce passion. The crimson optics of the Lord High Protector stare back at him; the heavy wave of Megatron's energy field washes over Mirage from helm to pede.   
  
He shivers, inundated by the weight of that power. Lord Megatron is a mech who exudes confidence and power, and it is all too evident in his field. Mirage feels tiny next to the Lord High Protector, not unsurprising given that he is half Megatron's height and less than half his weight.   
  
Lord Megatron chuckles, his massive hands resting on Mirage's waist, encircling them with ease. “You are an eager one,” he says, deep vocals rumbling through his chassis and vibrating Mirage's frame. “You are what? Second frame?”   
  
“Third,” Mirage says, hands planted on Megatron's chassis, fingers small and nimble enough to slide between seams, caress the conduits and cables beneath. “Though I can understand how you would be mistaken.”   
  
“Indeed.” One massive hand slides up, traces his backstrut, finger brushing the back of Mirage's helm. “You are delicate. I fear breaking you.”   
  
Mirage manages a smile, though his fans are going full-force, his entire frame thrumming with need. Charge crackles over his plating, dancing from his substructure to snap against Lord Megatron's heavy armor.   
  
“I am sturdier than you think,” he promises and rolls his hips, eliciting a _shinnnnk_ of metal on metal that echoes in the room.   
  
Another bass-born chuckle vibrates through the room and Megatron's hand cups Mirage's helm, fingers stroking the elegant curves and dancing over a sensory array. Mirage shivers.   
  
“I suppose I'll have to find out,” Megatron says.   
  
“There will be no breaking of the pretty nobles, brother,” comes the Lord Prime's chastisement from the other side of the room, punctuated by a whimper of pleasure from his berthmate. “We are still paying for the last one.”   
  
Amusement ripples through Lord Megatron's field, mingling nicely with Mirage's own, prickling over his sensory net. “I haven't forgotten, you nanny-bot.”   
  
“Should I be scared?” Mirage asks, though of all the emotions cascading through him, fear is the last of them.   
  
“Only if it excites you, pretty one.” Lord Megatron's other thumb presses against his pelvic plating, the tip of it nudging a bundle of cables beneath, and Mirage's spark throbs. “Shall we begin?”   
  
There is no way in the Pit Mirage is going to say otherwise.

***


	60. Rumor to the Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bluestreak walks in to find a Seeker on his berth and what else can he do but make the most of it? (BluestreakxSkywarp, G1)

Bluestreak can honestly say that he never expected to find himself in this particular situation.   
  
There's a Seeker lounging on his berth – twirling a pair of handcuffs, no less – and sporting a cheesy grin that could put some of Sideswipe's to shame. Bluestreak recognizes him on the spot, of course, and a part of him isn't surprised. Of all the Seekers, Skywarp is the one most known for getting places he shouldn't be. He's a teleporter; it comes with the territory.   
  
Bluestreak honestly doesn't know if he should be whipping out his blaster, aiming his rocket launchers, contacting Prowl, or diving into the berth to show the Seeker the meaning of the term “fraternization”. Possibly all four.   
  
“Well,” Bluestreak says, careful to keep his tone light as he eyes the grinning Decepticon. “I don't know what you're doing here or how you got in here. Wait. Scratch that. It's obvious how you got in here. What I don't know is why and it's kind of creepy and I'm going to need an explanation in about three seconds or I'm going to shoot your helm off. Ratchet can fix you, I've seen him do it, so you'll survive, but it won't be fun for any of us, least of all me, because then I'll have to clean you off my berth. So. Talk.”   
  
Skywarp bursts into laughter, gales of it, his wings rattling from the force of it. “Talk, he says. Like I can get a word in edgewise.”   
  
Bluestreak lowers his helm, letting his blaster fill with charge, knowing that the distinctive click and whine is a universal sign.   
  
“But I think that's what everyone likes about you,” Skywarp adds, voice sliding into a purr. “That and apparently, your phenomenal berth skills.” He pauses, twirling the handcuffs again. “Oh, and I suppose we'll just have to see who's faster. Your blaster or my teleporting.”   
  
Bluestreak cycles his optics, defense protocols stalling in confusion. “Phenomenal?”   
  
“Or so I've heard.” Skywarp eases off the berth, which he'd barely fit on in the first place, and manages to stand without looming, though how he does it is a mystery to Bluestreak. “Care to put fact to rumor?”   
  
All of Bluestreak's weapons power down. “You came here to ask me to interface?” he asks, and because it sounds so ludicrous, he has to clarify. “Is there no one on the Nemesis capable of interfacing or something because honestly, I'm finding this a bit hard to believe. I'm flattered, believe me, I'm flattered, but also, a little disturbed.”   
  
Skywarp's grin widens, his wings perked and flickering – flirting, if Bluestreak knows his wing-language. “Oh, there's plenty interested. But one might say I have a taste for the unusual and well, Autobot chatter has made me quite intrigued.”   
  
Autobot chatter? Bluestreak rolls his optics. Soundwave. Has to be. That mech is like the definition of a voyeur, though it's a bit of a surprise that he shares his observations with his fellow Decepticons.   
  
There's only way to respond to that, Bluestreak supposes.   
  
He squints at Skywarp, planting his hands on his hips. “Are you crazy?”  
  
“No, I'm not. Starscream had me tested.” Skywarp chuckles, moves closer, and there's less threat in the movement than there is seduction. “I am, however, serious. So what do you say? Want to show a Seeker how to have a good time?”  
  
Bluestreak must admit, the offer is a tad bit tempting. He doesn't consider himself the most arrogant of the Autobots, but bragging rights are always a nice plus.   
  
Fraternization is frowned upon, but then, no one's hauling Smokescreen in for that whatever he has going on with Vortex. Optimus tends to be indulgent, talking about the need to build bridges in an effort to end the war sooner. Bluestreak thinks he just wants an excuse for groping Megatron mid-battle.   
  
“I don't know,” Bluestreak says, letting his field trickle out slowly, sweeping across Skywarp's plating in a slow, slide of sensation. “What's in it for me?”   
  
“The chance to berth a Seeker?” Skywarp offers and starts twirling those handcuffs again, implying that Bluestreak can use them, should he so desire.   
  
Bluestreak rolls his optics. “Been there, done that. And no, I'm not going to tell you who. That's my secret to know and yours to forever wonder about.” He smirks, eying those cuffs. “What else do you have to offer?”  
  
It is Skywarp's turn to purr, his Decepticon optics deepening in hue. “The fact that these aren't the only fun I brought with me.” He raises his hand, making the cuffs glint. “There's more in my subspace.”   
  
Even more tempting.   
  
“And I can use it at my discretion?” Bluestreak bargains, certain that whatever Skywarp has, he can make use of.   
  
“Of course.” Skywarp's field gives a happy clip, nudging against Bluestreak's own.   
  
He arches an orbital ridge, teetering toward the path of sensual satisfaction. “And you realize that by showing up here, asking and agreeing, that you give full consent to any and everything I might do to make you scream your pleasure?”   
  
The blast of arousal that slams Bluestreak's field is about all the confirmation he needs. But words are nice, too. Especially when Skywarp steps forward, drops to his knees, and tilts his helm back. His optics latch onto Bluestreak's – oh, someone has taught him well – and he offers up the handcuffs.   
  
“Yes,” Skywarp murmurs with a coy twitch of his wings. “Master.”   
  
A shiver races down Bluestreak's backplate and he knows that refusal is no longer an option. Not with Skywarp offering himself so willingly. Bluestreak has always been weak for the hungry ones.   
  
“All right,” he murmurs, raising a hand to cup Skywarp's face, thumb stroking the sweep of a cheekarch. “Then let the games begin.” 

*** 


	61. An Awkward Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be a routine patrol, until the zombie predacons attacked and Megatron swooped in to save the day. (Smokescreen, Megatron, TFP post-Predacons Rising)

It was supposed to be a routine patrol, mapping the ruins of Cybertron, keeping his sensors primed for stray Decepticons unwilling to accept Megatron's dismissal and the end of the war.   
  
The last thing Smokescreen expected to encounter was a lingering zombie predacon. Still, he could have handled it. He popped off a call to headquarters, primed his blaster and readied his phase shifter.   
  
And then a second zombiecon shuffled out of the shadows and Smokescreen began to feel a little outnumbered.   
  
Backup would arrive ASAP.   
  
He could make it.   
  
Until he lost an arm and with it, his signature move. Spurting energon, pain making his vision blurry, Smokescreen counted the seconds. One predacon moved in on him, unhinged jaw agape. The other swiped at him with surprisingly swift claws, wings splayed and bare of flat planes.   
  
At least, Smokescreen thought, I'll go out in a blaze of glory.   
  
Thank you, Wheeljack, for this one emergency grenade.   
  
Smokescreen chucked it between the groaning, lumbering zombicons and just as he turned to run, a silver mass struck him out of nowhere.   
  
Smokescreen tumbled across the ground, one doorwing slamming down with a loud snap. He groaned, kicking and flailing at whatever had attacked him, certain that a third predacon was trying to eat his brain module.   
  
“Stop struggling!”  
  
The growled command pierced Smokescreen's panic and he froze.   
  
Oh, Primus.   
  
He knew that voice. He knew that harsh click, the sharp whine of a fusion cannon powering up. And, in recollection, he knew that shade of silver paint.   
  
He remembered the grenade.   
  
“Wait!”   
  
Too late.   
  
Fusion cannon met grenade and resulted in a spectacular explosion that rattled the ground and lit up the sky. A cloud of metal shavings burst up and outward. Pieces of zombiecon flew every which way.   
  
Megatron shielded Smokescreen with his own frame just as the blastwave hit them. Smokescreen struggled to keep conscious, but it was a battle lost.   
  
He rebooted within seconds, half-expecting to find it all some strange recharge purge. Except that it wasn't because Megatron was still sprawled atop him. Big. And heavy. And spiky. And his frame expelled heat in thick bursts, metal ticking as it cooled, plating vibrating as his cooling fans spun.   
  
He also wasn't moving.   
  
Primus.   
  
Well, Smokescreen thought as his interface protocols pinged online and his panel started to heat, this is awkward. His faceplates heated.   
  
Did it have to be Megatron? Of all the big mechs on the planet, did it have to be their most fearsome enemy? Or former enemy. Or however that worked now.   
  
At least the zombiecons were destroyed.   
  
“Um.” Smokescreen squirmed, armor scraping against armor in an audible shriek. His doorwing ached. “Could you get off me?”   
  
Megatron groaned and twitched.   
  
“Not that I'm ungrateful,” Smokescreen hastened to add because Megatron had a legendary temper and Smokescreen liked his limbs intact, especially since he was already missing one. “But you're kind of...” -- _arousing_ \-- “...squishing me.”  
  
Megatron grunted and then, finally, pushed his upper frame up, optics regarding Smokescreen like he'd never seen the Autobot before. Or like he'd completely forgotten how he'd ended up in this particular position.   
  
Smokescreen stared back because, yeah, _awwwwwkward_.   
  
His cooling fans clicked on with a telling whirr.   
  
Megatron tilted his helm, lips curling into an amused smirk, revealing those pointed denta.   
  
Which was, of course, the perfect time for back up to arrive. In came the cavalry, blasters blazing, engines revving...   
  
Optics staring.   
  
Smokescreen tipped his helm back, offering Wheeljack, Ultra Magnus, and Bulkhead a thin smile.   
  
“Um. It's not what it looks like?” he tried.   
  
Megatron rolled his optics and then rolled to his pedes all in one smooth motion, ignoring the flattened Autobot beneath him.   
  
“I don't have time for this,” he said, and took off into the air, transforming into alt-mode with a quick snap. He was gone in a flash-burn of his thrusters, leaving Smokescreen to deal with the awkward aftermath.   
  
Slagging Decepticon. Smokescreen let his helm thunk against the ground. He wanted his arm back. He wanted his doorwing relocated. He wanted the heat to stop burning in his lines, and his processor to stop offering up images of what else Megatron could have been doing while pinning him to the ground.   
  
He really wanted Ultra Magnus to stop staring at him like that.   
  
Wheeljack cackled, weapon powering down. “Now this I have to hear.”   
  
“Yes,” Ultra Magnus said. “I, too, would like an explanation.”   
  
Bulkhead grimaced.   
  
Smokescreen sighed.   
  
Well, that hadn't gone according to plan at all. 

***


	62. The First Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starscream walks into Blurr's bar with the idea of an offer Blurr is to curious to outright refuse. (IDW Robots in Disguise)

“I have a proposition for you.”   
  
Blurr didn't look up from swiping the cloth over the bar top. “Not interested,” he said in a flat tone.   
  
Of course, when did one refusal ever work on a Seeker?  
  
“You haven't heard me out yet,” Starscream said, leaning against the bar, wings arched and flared with the intent to entice.  
  
“Because I'm not interested,” Blurr repeated and narrowed his optics at Starscream. “Never was.”   
  
Starscream grinned. “Oh, I'm not so sure about that. Because if I'm right, we'll both come out on top.”   
  
Blurr barked a laugh, flashing Starscream an old smirk, dredged up from his racing orns. “I'm always on top.”   
  
“You see, that's what I like about you, Blurr. Your confidence,” Starscream replied with a flutter of his wings.   
  
Blurr turned his back on the Seeker, plating itching between his shoulders as it always did when there was a Decepticon behind him. Especially this one. It didn't matter that the war was “over.” Certain suspicions wouldn't end that easily.   
  
“Oh, is that all?” he asked.   
  
His comm system pinged, the ident code registering Jazz. Did he need help? Hardly. Blurr pinged back reassurance. He had this. Still, it was nice to know he had back up.   
  
“I could go on but it might be considered inappropriate for such a public setting.”   
  
Blurr put down his rag and tilted his helm toward his other server, letting the mech know he was stepping out for a klik. He turned back to Starscream, heading for the swinging panel to exit the bar. He noticed that the Seeker matched him step for step.   
  
“Since when do you care about propriety?” Blurr asked, well aware that they were attracting attention. Oh, the former Autobots and Decepticons scattered around his bar were being unobtrusive, but it was obvious they were looking.   
  
“Since that DJ of yours can't keep his optics off me,” Starscream replied, tilting his helm toward Jazz on stage. Of course he would notice. Jazz wasn't exactly subtle.   
  
Blurr stepped out of the bar, door swinging shut behind him, and leaned against the bar. Starscream moved closer, near-crowding him, but keeping his hands to himself at least. It was an intimidation tactic, not that Blurr was intimidated.   
  
“It's not often that mechs as... popular as yourself come here,” Blurr said and folded his arms. “What do you want, Starscream?”   
  
Starscream tilted forward, his ex-vents washing over Blurr's frame. “What I've always wanted, my dear racer,” he purred, less screechy and more seductive.   
  
Blurr scoffed. “Power?”   
  
“Peace.”   
  
His huffed a ventilation. “I don't believe you.”   
  
“Well,” Starscream drawled, helm tilting left and right. “First comes one, then comes the other. It's a process.”   
  
He wondered if that coy manner ever worked on the Decepticons. It certainly wasn't working on Blurr.   
  
He ground his denta. “What you want from me?”   
  
Starscream's lips curled into a grin. “Your cooperation.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“Oh, we can discuss details later. And elsewhere.” Starscream gave him a sly look. “We are, after all, in public.”   
  
Blurr was not impressed. Curious, but unimpressed. “I'm a busy mech, Starscream.”   
  
“As am I.”   
  
Sure he was, with his lofty plans of planet-wide domination and gaining leadership of a mostly defunct faction. Blurr barely kept himself from rolling his optics.   
  
Starscream pulled back, but not before his field wafted a teasing caress. “I'll comm you the details at a later time, yes?”   
  
“I'll try not to ignore it,” Blurr retorted, well aware that Jazz was watching them more intently now.   
  
Starscream laughed. “And I'll make sure to build an offer you can't refuse.”   
  
“We'll see.”   
  
Starscream left. Blurr watched him go, his backstrut itching. A sudden urge to run and keep on running nagged at the back of his processor.   
  
“Care to share?” Jazz asked, approaching from the shadows.   
  
Blurr shook his helm. “I honestly don't know myself.”   
  
“You gonna find out?”   
  
His optics cycled down. “I might be just that curious.”   
  
Jazz patted him on the shoulder. “Just watch yourself,” he warned. “That Seeker loves to sink his claws in deep.”   
  
Blurr grinned. “He can try.” He turned back toward his bar, his pride and joy. “But he'd have to catch me first.” 

***


	63. Taking the Leader

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1 AU  
> Characters: BluestreakxMegatron, Decepticon Ensemble, Autobot Ensemble  
> Description: The challenge had been laid and only Bluestreak rose to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt originally grabbed from a Commentfic and Robot Porn Party on Dreamwidth
> 
> "G1, Megatron/Bluestreak, courtship, gun kink, any"

The challenge had been laid but the only one more surprised by Bluestreak's victory was Bluestreak himself.

"Well," he said, doorwings fluttering as he looked up at the massive Decepticon warlord, fingers twitching in remembrance. "I didn't see that coming."

"I did!" Jazz announced, only to be tackled into silence by a half-dozen Autobots, all eager to see what happened next. A few Decepticons looked envious of the pile of heated frames, though until the victory was declared and consummated, they wouldn't be allowed to enjoy.

Megatron's lips curled with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction. "I should have guessed," he said, rich vocal tones washing through Bluestreak's audials and making him shiver. "A near-perfect score."

Bluestreak's internals squirmed with arousal. Pre-competition jitters had made his first shot off the mark, but once he'd become accustomed to the weight and power and – Primus, he pressurized just thinking about it – grip, it was smooth sailing.

"Well," he said, again, with a smile. And was he _flirting_ with Megatron? "I had the best weapon for the job."

Yes, yes he was. Completely. But who wouldn't?

Megatron gave him a startled look, but then burst into laughter, field flush with pride and approval. "One you handled with utmost skill," he said.

Bluestreak's field spiked, cooling fans bursting to life. Megatron was flirting with him in return. _Megatron_ was _flirting_ with _him._ It took all the self-control he had not to suddenly start pawing at the Decepticon warlord like a starved mech. Just the knowledge that he was soon going to be taking Megatron in front of Autobot and Decepticon alike was enough to make his spike throb behind his panel. He sent another override to keep it locked in place, though he was rapidly losing the battle.

"That's not all he's good at handling!" someone from the crowd shouted and Bluestreak knew that if he looked, Sideswipe would be there with a slag-eating grin.

Bluestreak's faceplate burned hotter.

"Is that so?" Megatron asked, field pulsing with intrigue.

Time to summon up all the gall Bluestreak had in storage. "Yes," he said, and reached out, dragging a finger down the barrel of Megatron's fusion cannon, remembering all too well the power it contained. A sharp pulse of desire attacked him as static danced along the barrel. "And now I'm going to show you."

***


	64. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: IDW, MTMTE  
> Characters: Cyclonus, Tailgate  
> Desc: Cyclonus dreams, Tailgate wakes, violence ensues.

He jerks online, fuel pump stuttered and spark racing and field fluxing. Recently upgraded defensive routines cycle to life and for a long, dark moment, Tailgate thinks he's trapped again, believing rescue will be an unspecified soon.   
  
Then his audios register sound, noise that hadn't been with him in that dark place and Tailgate remembers. The Lost Light. His accident. His roommate.   
  
Cyclonus.   
  
He onlines his optics and turns his helm, staring at Cyclonus in the next berth over. The flier is visibly twitching, his field fluctuating wildly and thrashing around the room like a wild thing. It's sort of lashing out, as though trying to protect Cyclonus from an unknown threat.   
  
Ah. This again.   
  
Tailgate sits up, slides off the berth, and creeps to Cyclonus' side. It's always a risk to try and wake the once-Decepticon. Cyclonus rarely onlines in a friendly mood. And if he's having a purge, well, he's likely to online with battle protocols ready and his blaster charged and Tailgate doesn't want to explain that to Ratchet again. Last time had been humiliating enough and he'd spent half his shift trying to convince Swerve and Skids that no, Cyclonus wasn't beating him up in his recharge and no, they didn't need to get Rodimus involved, and seriously no, they didn't need to send out a hit squad.   
  
Whatever the slag a hit squad is but considering the way Whirl had been leering and clacking his pincers together with eagerness in his field, Tailgate had his suspicions. Give Whirl an inch and he'll take a megamile.   
  
Tailgate cycles a ventilation, considers his options, and tries not to cringe. He could let Cyclonus ride out the purge. It wouldn't be the first time. But the idea of sitting here and watching his roommate suffer doesn't sit well with Tailgate either.   
  
He can't imagine what haunts Cyclonus' recharge cycle but Tailgate's had a few purges of his own, and they aren't anything he'd like to repeat. He'd be grateful if someone had ever waken him from his.   
  
Then again, this is Cyclonus. He's prickly at the best of times and Tailgate can't see him being grateful either. He'd probably sulk once he's realized he'd been caught in a moment of weakness.   
  
Tailgate sighs to himself, wringing his fingers together.   
  
Cyconlus sucks in a sharp ventilation, his field flailing out and all but smacking Tailgate aside. It's getting a bit violent in here and maybe it's compassion. Maybe it's self-preservation. Whatever it is, Tailgate doesn't much think when he reaches out and taps Cyclonus on the nearest armor panel he can reach.   
  
“Uh, Cyclonus--”  
  
Wham!  
  
Tailgate groans, thoughts spinning, aching as he slides down the wall and lands on wobbling legs. He had seen this coming and he's never going to live this down. Ratchet will give him that look, suggest he takes Swerve up on his offer to share quarters again. Which, don't get him wrong, Tailgate likes Swerve but he doesn't particularly want to share a hab-suite with the garrulous mech.   
  
Ouch.   
  
He lifts a hand, pressing it gingerly to his helm. No dents this time. Maybe he'll be able to avoid Ratchet then?  
  
Tailgate onlines his optical band, testing a glance Cyclonus' direction. His optic band brightens in disbelief.   
  
He's still in recharge! That... that... ARGH.   
  
Tailgate pushes himself upright, ignoring the dizziness in his helm, and stomps over to his berth. Fine. Let him suffer!   
  
He climbs back into his berth, flops down and ex-vents noisily. His aft hurts.   
  
He glares in Cyclonus' direction and then he realizes, his roommate's field isn't so vile anymore. It's not lashing angrily throughout their suite, threatening to make Tailgate dizzier. Cyclonus isn't twitching or groaning anymore either.   
  
He's still in recharge, but he's no longer suffering it.   
  
Tailgate brightens by a degree. Okay, so he hadn't caused Cyclonus to wake up, but he'd achieved the desired effect. He considers that a win. Even if his aft is dented now.   
  
Satisfied, Tailgate rolls over and returns to recharge.

***


	65. Warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Warning  
> Universe: Bayverse  
> Characters: Jazz, Starscream  
> Desc: Jazz has a bad feeling but Starscream is confident.

“You do know that he's going to kill you?”   
  
His lover smirks, a touch too confident. “He will try,” Starscream says with a twitch of his wings. “He will not succeed.”   
  
Jazz snorts, a sound he picked up from an organic on his last mission. He's found it oddly useful. He's picked up a few others, too: sighing, coughing, sneezing. The latter amuses Starscream greatly.   
  
Some orn, when this war is through, maybe they'll go there together. As a vacation. By the time Jazz left, the organics had been fond of him. It would be a good planet for Cybertronians to visit. Right now, there aren't many like that left in the universe.   
  
“I should go instead,” Jazz says as he returns to the task at hand, stripping Starscream of every last definable color on his armor. “I'd be more believable.”   
  
“We are both suited,” Starscream replies. “But we also both know he doesn't need another one of your kind. He needs an Air Commander now that Dreadwing is incapacitated. Name one other who is more suited than myself.”   
  
Ah, and there's the arrogance that Jazz knows so well. The confidence, too. Starscream is many things, but uncertain is not one of them.   
  
“And if the rumors are true?” Jazz asks, circling around to get to Starscream's back, careful as always with the wings.   
  
“You mean, if he's altering a mech's primary coding? Impossible. It can't be done,” says Starscream, playfully twitching a wing. “He'd have an army of dead soldiers, not willing warriors. You can't alter that kind of coding without causing a cascade effect.”   
  
“But if he can...?”  
  
“He cannot,” Starscream says, tone firm.   
  
Jazz sighs a ventilation. “Then let me code your firewalls. You know mine are the best.”   
  
Starscream chuckles, his field reaching for Jazz's and giving him a comforting stroke. “No. Prowl's are the best, and you and I both know it. He's already agreed to bolster what I have.”   
  
“You're not programmed for long-term, deep cover,” Jazz argues because frag it, he's got a feeling. It's not rooted in logic, but something spark deep. This isn't going to work like they all want –need-- it to. Something's going to go wrong.   
  
If Megatron were sane, if he operated on logic, then maybe, maybe this could work. But if that were true, then this whole war wouldn't exist in the first place.   
  
“And this is not, precisely, a covert mission,” Starscram replies.   
  
“Frag it, you have an answer for everything, don't you?”   
  
“Not everything, but for your arguments, yes.” Starscream reaches behind himself with those oddly long arms and snags Jazz, distracting him from his paint-stripping.   
  
He grumbles as he's pulled into his partner's arms, muttering about how much larger than him Starscream is. Though that's always been the case. Jazz is a ground-based form; Starscream is a flier. They are never going to be similar in stature.   
  
Jazz huffs. “You're going to get yourself killed.”   
  
“And you're going to have to trust that I know what I'm doing,” Starscream says, his red optics gleaming back at Jazz. “After all, I do the same after you've been sent on one of your little walks, haven't I?”   
  
Jazz goes over several arguments in his helm before he squares his jaw and thumps his fist on Starscream's chestplate. “There's no winning with you,” he mutters.   
  
Starscream doesn’t bother to conceal his smug grin. “No, there isn't. Which is why this is going to work. Megatron doesn't stand a chance.”   
  
Jazz wants to believe that. But his instincts tell him otherwise. It's clear there's no convincing Starscream otherwise, however, so the best he can do is prepare his lover to the best of his abilities.   
  
This has to work.

***


	66. No Place Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: IDW, Robots in Disguise  
> Characters: Jazz and Blurr  
> Warnings: Spoilers for RiD  
> Desc: The silent hours of aftermath. A hint of something more.

There's a certain weight to the disappointment that bears down on his spark. Blurr looks at the ruined remains of his bar and thinks ' _this is why we can't have nice things_.'   
  
It doesn't stop him from grabbing a bin and starting the arduous task of collecting debris. He will rebuild. It will be better than it was before. Blurr can't think of anything else to do.   
  
He starts a list, cataloging all that needs to be done. Repairs and replacements must be acquired.   
  
How many of his clientale perished? How many clung to their brands and walked out of the city? How many will blame him for not joining the Autobots?   
  
So much to do, Blurr reflects, his feet crunching over broken glass. His optics take in the sight of scorched paneling. The stench of ash and spilled mechfluid clings to the air.   
  
His home, tainted by war once again. It's almost too demoralizing to fathom. What is the point?  
  
Primus, he could use a drink. But what hadn't been destroyed had been liberated by looters. He was fragging lucky the whole place hadn't burned to the ground.   
  
Footsteps announce the arrival of another mech. The field registers as familiar, friendly, and dare he say it, something more.   
  
“I'm still surprised you're here,” Blurr says, taking a piece of shattered chair and tossing it into his box.   
  
“I don't have to like Starscream to think he's right.”   
  
Blurr half-turns, sweeping his gaze over Jazz, noting for himself the absence of something that has defined Jazz for as long as they have known each other. “Some might call you a traitor.”   
  
Jazz rolls his shoulders and gestures to Blurr with a broom. “Nothing has ever been black and white. Just ask Prowl.”   
  
“Yeah. I'll keep that in mind.” Blurr's vents hitch in amusement and he turns back to his cleaning.   
  
A beat passes before the sound of the broom sweeping up shattered glass joins the quiet.   
  
“You don't have to help, you know,” Blurr says.   
  
“Yeah. I do.” Jazz crouches, picking up a small decoration that had survived the chaos, tucking it away into an arm compartment. “It's a side-effect, you know, of being in the Autobots for so long. I gotta have somewhere to belong. I figure here is as good as anywhere.”   
  
“Oh, you do, do you?” Blurr, amused, stares at the once temporary leader of the Autobots, who had kept them going through some of their darkest hours. “Was I at least your first choice?”   
  
Jazz grins at him, bracing his weight on the steel-framed broom. “Of course. This bar is home. And maybe the mech who runs it, too.”   
  
Blurr's spark flutters. Heat grows beneath his facial plating and he dips his helm, returning to the mess beneath him.   
  
“You know you're always welcome here,” Blurr says, uncertainty a new feeling for him, but strangely, not wholly unwanted. It is frighteningly normal. “For what it's worth, I'm glad you stayed.”   
  
Jazz starts sweeping again. “Me, too.”

***


	67. Special Alone Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: RatchetxStarscream  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Starscream pretends to be busy. Ratchet doesn't approve.

If there was an Olympic event for marathon whining, Ratchet was sure Starscream would bring home the gold. Nothing was ever good enough. Ratchet worked too much. Their shared room was too small. The Autobots were annoying.   
  
Whine, whine, whine.   
  
Most of the time, Ratchet found it amusing. Possibly even endearing. It was hard to take Starscream seriously through the snark. Ratchet listened to all the complaints, absorbed perhaps a fourth of them, and on occasion, took the time to address the more honest of them.   
  
Because Ratchet _was_ a busy mech. Their quarters _were_ small. He had to admit that the Autobots could be quite irritating as a whole. And the energon did taste like slag.   
  
But while Ratchet's hands were tied for the most part, it was within his power to arrange for some down time.   
  
So he did. It took bribing and cajoling but by Primus, Ratchet achieved an early dismissal from his shift. Success.   
  
He took the time to make it special. He acquired some special grade energon from Sideswipe, borrowed some fine wax from Tracks, and actually got more than a little excited.   
  
Of course, circumstances being as they were, when Ratchet arrived at his shared quarters with Starscream, the Seeker was bent over a pile of datapads, completely engrossed. He didn't so much as look up when Ratchet came into the room. Nor did he acknowledge Ratchet's presence.   
  
Humph.   
  
Ratchet tumbled his armload of accessories onto their shared berth, walked right up to his mate, and stood behind him, arms planted on his hips. He rebooted his vocalizer with an audible grind – akin to a human clearing their throat, a move Sparkplug had helped him work out how to duplicate.   
  
Nothing.   
  
Ratchet's optics narrowed. “Have I become something of a stranger to you?” he demanded. “Or do I now hold second rank to your research?”   
  
Starscream lifted a hand, flicking his wrist. “I am busy, in case you haven't noticed. Surely you know the meaning of the word 'busy.'”  
  
Was that a not-subtle dig at Ratchet's own level of activity? Could he help that he was the Autobot's Chief Medical Officer? Especially these particular Autobots who were always finding some way to get themselves scraped, banged, broken, and mangled?   
  
“How convenient that you are so busy now that I'm not,” Ratchet retorted and he leaned over Starscream's shoulder – an action he knew the Seeker hated – to peer at the datapad that had occupied his mate's attention. “Can't it wait?”   
  
Starscream squirmed. “For your information,” he said. “No, it cannot. Now give me some room or so help me Primus I'll hurt you.”   
  
Ratchet snorted, another mannerism he and Sparkplug worked out and leaned back. He crossed his arms and glared at the back of Starscream's helm. From his brief glance, it hadn't appeared Starscream was working on anything more than inventory maintenance, perhaps in preparation for some future experiment.   
  
Which meant that he was putting Ratchet off a-purpose. Punishment, most likely, to the Seeker's Decepticon-influenced processor.   
  
Well, two could play this game. Only Ratchet would use different rules.   
  
He grinned to himself and stepped right up behind Starscream, hovering, only a few bare inches between them. This, he knew, would irritate the Seeker. And now to up the stakes.   
  
Ratchet unfolded his arms and dragged the fingers of his left hand along the outer edge of Starscream's left wing. It was a light, barely-there touch, what humans would call a tickle.   
  
The wing twitched away from his hand.   
  
Smirk widening, Ratchet repeated the action, though this time with his right hand on Starscream's right wing.   
  
Plating ruffled. Starscream twitched, venting loudly. But, Ratchet noticed, he said nothing. Stubborn to a fault, the Seeker was. No matter. Ratchet could be patient when he wanted to be.   
  
Lather, rinse, repeat. First the left wing and then the right. Over and over, driving Starscream to distraction.   
  
Ratchet grew more amused with every passing moment to the same rate that Starscream became irritated, his wings flicking to no avail.   
  
“Quit it,” Starscream said, his tone cross.   
  
“No,” Ratchet replied.   
  
A low growl developed in the Seeker's chassis. “I'm trying to concentrate.”   
  
“I noticed.” Flick, flick. Tickle. Flick, flick.   
  
“Ratchet,” Starscream hissed, turbines vibrating threateningly. “Cease that at once.”   
  
His grin widened. “No.” He dragged his fingers across the top edge of Starscream's wing, from the tip to the joint and knew he had won when Starscream shuddered and whipped around, fixing him with a glare.   
  
“Ratchet,” he snarled, optics blazing crimson at him, “I'm busy.”   
  
“But I missed you,” Ratchet replied, making no attempt to hide his smile and trying, in vain, to copy the innocent expression that Sideswipe wielded so well.   
  
Starscream's face went through a contortion of expressions, as though he couldn't decide on outrage or amusement and settled somewhere nearer to exasperation. “And of course you expect me to drop what I'm doing to give you the attention you want?”   
  
“Hmm. Where does that sound familiar?” Ratchet arched an orbital ridge. “I did bring high grade.”   
  
Some of the annoyance petered out of Starscream's expression, though his wings still flicked. Much like a cat actually. “Go on.”   
  
“And your favorite wax.”   
  
Starscream turned around fully, lounging back against his desk with careful shifting of his wings. The cat resemblance became uncanny. “I'm somehow sensing a bribe,” he said dryly. “And an apology.”   
  
“Is it working?”   
  
With a long, leisurely look at Ratchet from helm to pede, Starscream smirked. “I don't know. Why don't you try and find out?” He lounged, stretching indolently, the very picture of a mech who expected to be treated like royalty.   
  
Some things never changed.   
  
Luckily, for Ratchet, he kind of liked that about Starscream. He was predictable in his unpredictability. And he was hot as all slag, too.   
  
“Your wish is my command,” Ratchet said. And it would be such an onerous task.


	68. Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Blurr, Shockwave, Background OC  
> Universe: TFA, sequel to Expedient  
> Description: Shockwave had prepared himself for pain. The truth is something wholly different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to number 41, Expedient.

The worst part is the lack of pain. Shockwave expects pain, anticipates it. He's prepared himself for it.   
  
Blurr does not serve pain. Instead, he delights in humiliation.   
  
To Shockwave, whose pride has already been ground to inarticulate particles, he thought there was no further he could sink. He was terribly wrong and Shockwave is not a mech accustomed to being wrong.   
  
The defeat of Megatron and subsequent collapse of the Decepticons had been an unexpected outcome. The beginning of the end. Shockwave has not been right since and that, too, is a lesson in humiliation.   
  
Most days, Blurr ignores him. Sometimes, Shockwave believes that the Autobot forgets he exists. Shockwave has learned to function on the barest of energon. Whether Blurr intends to keep him forever under-energized or is simply that unhinged, Shockwave doesn't know. He can predict nothing when it comes to his keeper.   
  
Keeper.   
  
The very time grinds his gears and squeezes his tank.   
  
The days when Blurr deigns to acknowledge Shockwave, as few as they are, become another lesson in humiliation. Accustomed to Lord Megatron's full attention, his praise, Shockwave chafes under the lack of disregard Blurr gives him.   
  
Blurr chatters, often about nonsensical things and too fast to be comprehended. He rants, he rails, he throws accusations. He taunts Shockwave, mocks the Decepticon, and is a constant reminder of what Shockwave has lost.   
  
Shockwave cannot access the news for himself. Blurr, however, is quite content to read it aloud, focusing only on the items that make Shockwave cringe.   
  
Even this, Shockwave endures.   
  
He waits, expectantly, for the day his crazed keeper finally snaps and rips out Shockwave's spark. But that would be mercy and Blurr has none to spare.   
  
Shockwave sits in his corner, paint dull and corroded, largely ignored, and feels the humiliation curdle inside of him like badly processed energon. He thinks longingly of a different world under Lord Megatron's rule and knows that it will never come to pass and that stings like acid rain on his plating.   
  
He watches Blurr live the life Shockwave and the other Decepticons should have had. Blurr, who goes to a well-paid job that he enjoys. Blurr, who enjoys energon spiced to his specific liking. Blurr, who glimmers and shines in the light from expensive paint and wax. Blurr, who on more than one occasion, has brought home a partner and the sounds floating out of the berthroom grate on Shockwave's audials.   
  
“What is that?” one anonymous mech asks as Blurr slyly drags him to a berth.   
  
“Nothing,” Blurr says without a glance Shockwave's direction and off they go, to the scent of hot metal, ozone, and the sound of pleasure.   
  
Nothing, he says. And nothing is what Shockwave has become. A pet in the corner, badly mistreated but then, he wonders, maybe even this is preferable.   
  
It could always be worse.

 


	69. Both in Spades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: OptimusxRatchetxSideswipe  
> Universe: Bayverse  
> Description: There's something to be said about age and experience. Luckily for Sideswipe, Ratchet and Optimus have both.

Ratchet is the oldest of them. His armor tastes like aged iron, weld residue and experience. It's hard, almost to the point of brittle for their kind, giving hint to the ancient elements used in his construction and no longer in use for newer mechs. His protoform is fraught with silvery threads of weld lines and breakages and testament to millennia of survival.   
  
Sideswipe loves touching him, tracing each line, like a historical road map. Ratchet remembers each and every one of them, too. Remembers the empty spaces in his frame where he once carried secondary and redundant systems for medical use, back when the war had just begun and such things were necessary. They are still necessary but supplies being what they are – nonexistent – Ratchet doesn't carry them anymore. He's a curious mix of weight and empty spaces, his once-stocky frame now peppered with voids.   
  
It's hot as slag.   
  
His datastream feels like endless wisdom and surety, a sense of been there, done that, just try and surprise me. They wouldn't even be compatible were it not for the fact that Ratchet's a medic and inter-compatibility comes with the territory. The first time he pulled out his cord, Sideswipe gaped at the sheer number of them, a verifiable tangle of sizes and shapes and a shudder had danced down his plating. He'd wanted to lick every plug, nibble on the tips, memorize the shapes of each prong with his glossa and he'd done so and Ratchet had come undone beneath him and Primus, it's one of his favorite memories.   
  
But it's Ratchet's spike that's the true pleasure, Sideswipe thinks. Long and narrow, perfectly cylindrical and smooth to the touch. It slides and slides and slides into Sideswipe's valve, gliding through his lubricant. It's so fraught with sensors on the otherwise unadorned surface that even the first push sets of a maelstrom of static in Sideswipe's valve, bringing him quickly and immediately to overload. He can't do anything but lie there and writhe, lubricant spilling from his valve and puddling on the berth, soaking the padding.  
  
Which is a good thing, Sideswipe reflects, because Optimus' spike is huge and the extra lubricant can only ease the way for Prime though its still a tight fit.   
  
Optimus is young by Ratchet's standards. But he's so much older than Sideswipe, and there's an ageless quality to him thanks to whatever old Prime knowledge has been crammed into his helm and spark. His armor and plating is strong and fine, lined with rare metals and filigree, a testament to his position.   
  
Optimus' frame design is unique, based upon the ancient Prime's, and every time Sideswipe touches him, it's like he's tracing their history. Every inscribed glyph has some meaning and when Optimus croons at him in the old Primal vernacular, Sideswipe tingles inside and out. He doesn't know frag all what it means, but it doesn't matter, not with the harmonics in Optimus' vocals and the way the intonation caresses his audials.   
  
Optimus' datastream is halfway overwhelming. There's so much power in his links that it floods Sideswipe's systems, swamps his processor, and makes every inch of him tingle. Charge crawls out from his substructure, lighting up the room and Sideswipe gets reduced to a gibbering mess. It would be embarrassing if it wasn't so slagging arousing.   
  
And then Optimus follows it up with that spike, pushing into the mess Ratchet left behind and causing Sideswipe's valve to strain around the girth of it. His ventilations stall, core temperature rocketing upward, and all Sideswipe can do is spread his thighs wider, clutch onto Optimus' grill and beg for more. Even better, Optimus has this unusual jack at the tip of his spike that nudges against Sideswipe's apex node in an endless, fruitless search for the port that only the Lord High Protector has. Sparks of electricity surge from the tip, barraging Sideswipe with strut-shattering pleasure.   
  
The times when they double-team him are the absolute best. Sideswipe onlines afterward sore and sticky but oh-so-sated. There's something to be said about age and experience, and Ratchet and Optimus have both in spades.   
  
Fortunate that Sideswipe enjoys them both so very much.

 


	70. Goad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: SideswipexSunstreaker  
> Warnings: twincest, sticky, rough sex, wall sex  
> Summary: Sideswipe enjoys flirting with disaster, especially when that disaster is named Sunstreaker.

Sideswipe starts it. Why Sunstreaker is surprised by this, he has no idea. Sideswipe, after all, is always to blame.   
  
He's the one who innocently suggested a trip to the washracks. He's the one who offered to follow it up with a detailed wax. And he's the one who leans down, mid-buff, and licks a wet stripe up Sunstreaker's interface cover.   
  
After that, Sunstreaker can't be held responsible for his own actions. Sideswipe asks for it, with that smug grin, that glint to his optics, the slick slide of glossa on shiny, perfect paint.   
  
It's a goad is what it is so of course Sunstreaker grabs Sideswipe's helm and tells him to put that glossa to good use. And a use other than talking. He's already simmering from the long and thorough attention to his frame. Now Sideswipe is just being a fragging tease.   
  
Which is only proven when Sideswipe winks an optic, extracts himself from Sunstreaker's grip, and dances out of reach.   
  
The chase, as they say, is on. In the process, more than one piece of furniture lies in pieces, someone hollers at them to keep it down (Sunstreaker suspects Brawn), and Ratchet sends them both a warning that he's not repairing any damage this time, slag you very much.   
  
Sunstreaker corners Sideswipe by the desk, the little sneak flirting with disaster as he thumbs his blatantly open interface panel. He teases Sunstreaker with glimpses of the tip of his spike, finger swirling over the bead of transfluid gathered there.   
  
Is it any wonder that Sunstreaker has to pin him against the wall, slide his spike into that dripping valve and take Sideswipe hard and fast? Especially when Sideswipe moans, clutches his shoulders and begs for more in filthy words that he can't be coming up with on his own. Sunstreaker blames Jazz. When he's not blaming Sideswipe, he's always blaming Jazz.   
  
Sideswipe's legs wrap around Sunstreaker's waist, urging him on with presses of his pedes that narrowly escape scraping Sunstreaker's new polish. Sideswipe's helm tilts back, hitting the wall with a dull thunk, baring the tempting planes of his throat. Sunstreaker, always weak to resist this temptation, leans forward, glossa and mouth tasting the hot metal and the dance of charge across his brother's frame.   
  
Sideswipe's spike pokes against Sunstreaker's abdominal panels, streaking lubricating fluid across his armor. He is heat and static, dancing against Sunstreaker's sensors, moreso when he throws open their bond, knowing full well how weak Sunstreaker is to it.  
  
Of course he is. It takes a stronger mech to resist the pull of pleasure and love and trust. To ignore the pulsing sensation of a spike strumming along a valve while experiencing the delicious squeeze of a rippling valve around his own spike.   
  
Sideswipe's dorsal armor slides along with the wall with an audial-wincing _screek_ that is sure to leave a streak of red paint behind and Sunstreaker cringes. He'll have to fix that. It's embarrassing for Sunstreaker for Sideswipe to walk out of this room anything less than perfect.   
  
And then Sideswipe rolls his hips and Sunstreaker forgets about paint scrapes and embarrassingly loud moans and the broken chair. He thinks only about fragging Sideswipe hard enough to make him feel it come morning and then, maybe, taking Sideswipe bent over the berth for good measure.   
  
Judging by the desire – _the hunger_ \-- pulsing across their bond, Sideswipe wants it just as much as Sunstreaker does.   
  
Which, Sunstreaker suspects, had been Sideswipe's intentions all along.

***


	71. Incentives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: RatchetxOptimus  
> Universe: Bayverse, post-2007 film  
> Warnings: tactile  
> Description: Ratchet has Optimus right where he wants him.

It takes some finagling and much wheedling on Ratchet's part to convince Optimus to step away from diplomatic negotiations and power down for a much-needed defrag. Optimus can't be ordered as much as he is persuaded, especially when error messages pop up too quick to be ignored and glitches make him slip between several Earth languages.

Fortunately, Ratchet is a better orator than he is a medic and he's a fragging good medic. There's a reason Ironhide's still alive and he owes it all to Ratchet, scars notwithstanding. The scars in question being Ironhide's fault because he doesn't know how to be still when Ratchet's performing emergency welds on the battlefield.

But that's neither here nor there.

Because getting Optimus to the berth takes a few promises of Ratchet's own. And it's such an onerous task, joining Optimus in the makeshift warehouse they call shelter, letting his hands roam over elegant armor as Optimus vents heat beneath him. Even better that Ratchet's not here to repair the physical, but simply enjoy.

And there's a lot to enjoy about Optimus Prime.

“I will not go quietly,” Optimus promises as his hands bury themselves in Ratchet's substructure. Metal makes a skreel of noise across barely padded pavement as he shifts beneath Ratchet. “I am not the only one in need of recharge.”

Ratchet draws static with his fingertips, painting arcs of blue with Optimus' field. “Then I suppose you'll have to convince me it's worth my time.”

Large, deft hands hook on plating as fingers slide beneath, teasing the subsurface where sensors alight with stimulation. Optimus' engine rumbles, vibrating his frame, the ground, the corrugated walls of their shelter, and by proxy, Ratchet.

“Shall I take that as a challenge?” Optimus purrs, his vocals the perfect timbre to resonate in Ratchet's chassis even as they caress Ratchet's audials.

He shivers, frame becoming a restless motion atop Optimus'. His knees scrape yellow streaks of paint on the concrete, missing the padding entirely. It would be uncomfortable had Ratchet not spent centuries living in the midst of war. Right now, a padded piece of concrete was a fragging luxury.

“It depends on your terms,” Ratchet says, meaning to be stern, but it escapes on a pant, a desperate suck of cooler air into his vents. Not that there's much cooler air to be found.

Optimus is blasting heat, dumping it so fast that it's raising the ambient temperature in the warehouse. He seems calm on the outside, amused even, but Ratchet's sensors are telling him otherwise. Beneath the surface, Optimus is a storm begging to be unleashed.

“First to fall obeys the other for, hmm, two megacycles,” Optimus offers.

“Two!” Ratchet's outrage echoes in the warehouse, probably audible to all beyond it. Poor humans.

Two megacycles is a fragging long time! But... and Ratchet pauses to consider this. If he were to outlast Optimus, well, he could have Optimus on his back and motionless for some much needed maintenance. For full recharge. For... for everything Optimus has been putting off for the last dozen centuries! The possibilities are endless!

Why, Ratchet could even perform a full systems check if he wanted.

Optimus chuckles at his outrage. “Do you doubt yourself?” he teases.

“Oh, no,” Ratchet all but snarls, nearly filled with glee at the opportunity, his caresses doubling in earnest now. Before, this had been meant for recharge alone, now there is much, much more at stake. “I'll have you on a medberth yet!”

Optimus cycles his optics at him, a brief moment of silence swelling in the aftermath of Ratchet's declaration, before he abruptly laughs and rises upward. Ratchet's heavy, built to haul and carry, but it's an effortless motion that sends him tipping sideways. In a blink, he's pinned beneath his leader, half on and half off the spongy padding, heat pouring over his frame in a wave.

“I offer obedience and all you can consider is my physical wellbeing?” Optimus presses their helms together, his engine rumbling with amusement. “Medic, you are an odd one.”

Indignation wars with arousal. Ratchet puts forth a token resistance, but he's thoroughly pinned, his hands caught in a vise-like grip, Optimus' much longer lower frame keeping Ratchet's in check. The weight of Optimus' field, his heat, is a tangible presence, surrounding Ratchet with the evidence of power.

Damn Optimus for cheating!

Ratchet wants to roar outrage but what comes out is a hungry moan. A bleating plea for more and harder and yes, sir. He bucks up against Optimus with limited motion, static electricity crackling out from his frame to snap against Optimus' own.

“Cheater!” Ratchet accuses, plating twitching with restless need.

Optimus smirks at him, his helm nuzzling against Ratchet's own. “Do you forfeit?”

“Frag that!”

Optimus' laugh vibrates against his armor. “Then let the games begin.”

***


	72. Heel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron, Bob, Sunstreaker  
> Universe: MTMTE, post-Dark Cybertron  
> Warning: Spoilers  
> Description: Megatron meets a couple members of his new crew.

The _Lost Light_ was, reportedly, a Neutral ship by origin. That did not lessen the effect of discomfort that permeated Megatron as he stood outside, looking in. Nor did that fact make walking the halls any easier, or examining the bridge and engine room.  
  
It was not a Decepticon ship by any stretch of the imagination and he felt more than a little out of place. It helped, some, that he was surrounded by mechs both Autobot and Decepticon, though there were more of the former than the latter. It did not help that he was sharing captaincy with an idiot. That only made leadership more complicated.  
  
They were set to depart shortly. Megatron wanted to be familiar with every nook and cranny of his ship before they did so. He did not want to be caught off-guard. He wanted to know every member of his crew, new and recently acquired. In one hand, he carried a datapad, skimming the names of mechs, some recognizable and some strangers.  
  
The _Lost Light_ had been repaired but there was still evidence of recent battle on the floors and walls. It would take some scrubbing and repainting to make it good as new. Megatron noted that as potential for punishment since, apparently, the Autobots frowned upon physical penalties. If you asked Megatron, a quick backhand made unruly mechs reconsider their behaviors far faster than a stint in the brig.  
  
But it wasn't wholly his decision to make anymore. He had to share that responsibility with Rodimus. Pah. As though Rodimus and responsibility were two words that even belonged in the same sentence.  
  
A scrabble of claws over the floor was the first indication Megatron was not alone. He heard a shout, felt a blast of irritation, and he looked down from his datapad a second before a body struck him in the chestplate. He cycled his optics as it immediately dropped to the ground in a heap, leaving not so much as a scrape behind.  
  
Megatron arched an orbital ridge as he looked down at his attacker. It was an Insecticon. A very small, obviously underdeveloped Insecticon. And it was slowly climbing to its claws, looking as though it had rattled its processor.  
  
“Don't kill him!”  
  
Megatron looked up to find an Autobot charging toward him, energy field reading frantic, but no weapons on display. “Him?” Megatron asked, one pede nudging the Insecticon and watching it hunker down as it looked up at him, aft wiggling.  
  
“He was being friendly,” the yellow Autobot said, skidding to a halt a fair distance away from Megatron but close enough to intervene should Megatron decide to stomp the pest at his pedes. “Kind of.”  
  
“Friendly,” Megatron repeated. He peered at the other mech, feeling as though he should recognize him but not sure from where.  
  
The Insecticon crept closer, sniffing at his pede, antennae waving as its multiple optics brightened with something that might be considered happiness, for a fully-sparked mech.  
  
“We're still learning not to jump on other mechs,” the yellow Autobot said with something like a stern look the Insecticon's direction. “Bob, come here!”  
  
Megatron fought back a grin as the Insecticon ignored his master, still sniffing about Megatron's pedes. “An interesting name,” he commented and then scanned his datapad. Ah, there was an Insecticon listed here, belonging to an Autobot named Sunstreaker.  
  
That particular designation was familiar. The Autobots truly would forgive anything, wouldn't they?  
  
“I've been told I lack for creativity,” Sunstreaker said, relaxing a little now that Megatron wasn't projecting an intent to maim.  
  
“What does he find fascinating about my pedes?” Megatron asked, not uncomfortable, just baffled.  
  
“I wish I knew.” Sunstreaker ex-vented loudly and strode forward, grabbing the Insecticon by the collar fairing and jerking it backward. “Sorry. It won't happen again. I hope.”  
  
Bob made a chittering noise, straining against his master's grip, body wriggling in a way that was almost... cute.  
  
“I think he's more likely to damage himself than me,” Megatron said, but he waved the Autobot on anyway. He had an inspection to complete, after all. “Good luck. It seems you have your hands full.”  
  
“I do.” Sunstreaker tried to pull Bob away, but it was futile at best. “Sir, if you could...” He gestured with his helm, down the hall.  
  
Sir. What an interesting term to hear coming from an Autobot. Megatron couldn't decide if he approved or it unsettled him. Either way, the request was clear. Easier for Megatron to make himself scarce first than for Sunstreaker to try and haul Bob away.  
  
And so he did, more than aware of the optics that watched him go. Megatron consulted his datapad, making a notation, and wondered if any other members of his crew were anything like Sunstreaker and his pet and their previous solitary captain.  
  
He'd heard the rumors, that most members of the _Lost Light_ 's crew were less than sane, and now, he was beginning to think those rumors had weight.  
  
This was sure to be a long, long quest.

***


	73. Captaincy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron, Rodimus, Optimus Prime  
> Universe: MTMTE, post-Dark Cybertron  
> Warnings: spoilers  
> Description: Megatron is not amused.

“I think it's for the best,” Optimus Prime had said. “You'll be sharing the captaincy as well. Just to allay the concerns of all parties involved.”   
  
Megatron, in yet another miracle of miracles, had agreed. Clearly, something in the universe was out of alignment. He never imagined the day he would agree with Optimus Prime.   
  
And therein lay his folly.   
  
“You,” he said, staring at his co-captain and unable to ignore the pit of disgust churning through his internals.   
  
Rodimus offered a somewhat awkward grin. “Me,” he confirmed with a nod. “Oh, and Ultra Magnus will be with us. But you already knew that.”  
  
Megatron cycled a ventilation, clenched his hands into a tight fist before loosing them. “You,” he repeated, and no small wonder Optimus had scuttled out of the room at first chance. “You are the captain of this vessel.”   
  
“It was my idea,” Rodimus said, folding his arms over his chestplate as he looked up at Megatron. “So yeah, I'm the captain.”   
  
Megatron's mouth opened and then closed again. His optics cycled down and he half-turned away from Rodimus, activating his comm.   
  
“Optimus, I am not amused,” he said, making no effort to keep the conversation quiet.   
  
The Prime's answer came swiftly. “Neither am I. But you asked for the Knights of Cybertron and this is your only option to find them. Either work with Rodimus or sit here in a cell hoping that Rodimus succeeds.”   
  
Megatron ground his denta. “This is cruel and unusual punishment, Prime.”   
  
Optimus had the gall to laugh at him over the comm. Laugh! “I think you'll survive. And if you're lucky, you'll return with your sanity intact. Optimus out.”   
  
The comm closed before Megatron could form another retort and he cursed subvocally. This had to be Prime's petty revenge.   
  
“Are you done whining to Optimus or can we talk about this like fully-matured mechs?” Rodimus asked, arching an orbital ridge.   
  
Megatron huffed a ventilation. So said the mech with flames painted across his chassis and a list of complaints from some of his subordinates.   
  
“Talk?” Megatron repeated.   
  
“Well, we could just wing it.” Rodimus shrugged, embellished shoulders rising and falling. “But obviously that hasn't worked out for me so far. Better that we decide here and now how we're going to do this. And for the record, I'm not too keen on sharing captaincy with a mass murderer either but I don't have much of a choice.”   
  
Optimus Prime's orders trumped all others, apparently, even for Rodimus-not-a-Prime and former Decepticon warlords.   
  
Argh.   
  
Megatron rubbed his forehelm, feeling a processor ache in the midst of developing. At least he'd left Starscream behind on Cybertron.   
  
Thank Primus for that.

***


	74. A Little Less Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: OptimusxWheeljack  
> Universe: G1   
> Description: Wheeljack is talking but Optimus is more than a little distracted.

Wheeljack was talking. His hands were waving, gesticulating wildly. His indicators lit up in fits and bursts of bright colors. His frame language was animated, excited. Clearly, he'd had some kind of scientific breakthrough.   
  
Wheeljack was talking but all Optimus heard was scientific babble. Something about converters and percentages and transmorphers and...  
  
Wheeljack had a really nice paintjob. Attractive, come to consider it. A white base coat, clean lines of green and red. His alt-mode was suitable for his base frame, giving him angles in all the right places. And that spoiler! It twitched, up and down, like faux wings, with every excited gesture.   
  
It occurred to Optimus that it had been a long time since he'd had the pleasure of enjoying Wheeljack in the berth. Both he and Perceptor had been cloistered in the lab as of late, buried in the particulars of their experiments. It had been just as long since Optimus had enjoyed Perceptor as well, but Wheeljack was the one presently in front of him. He would have to hunt down Perceptor at a later date.   
  
“Optimus? Are you listening?”   
  
Optimus pushed to his pedes. “I understood the gist of it,” he said and tilted his helm to the side. “Can I help that you are so distracting?”   
  
Wheeljack's indicators glow a soft pink. “You're supposed to be paying attention to me. I was telling you about the diaclonic converter which you specifically ordered details regarding last week.”   
  
Oh, right. Somewhere, Optimus did remember giving that order, mostly because as brilliant as Wheeljack and Perceptor could be, it helped to give them boundaries. Hold the reins, so to speak.   
  
Hmm. Reins. Now wasn't that an image? Optimus' engine revved. He wondered if Wheeljack were up for a little... adventure?  
  
“All right,” said the engineer, planting his hands on his hips as he gave Optimus a long look. “You've got that gleam in your optic and I know my babbling wasn't that enticing. What gives?”  
  
Optimus chuckled. “On the contrary. Your enthusiasm was quite tempting.”  
  
“Oh.” Understanding dawned as Wheeljack's field hummed with contemplation before flaring with interest. “ _Oh_.”   
  
Ah, speechless. It was quite the good look on Wheeljack, though watching him in full animation was equally endearing.   
  
Optimus' battlemask slid open as he approached the engineer, one hand cupping Wheeljack's face to gently drag his thumb across Wheeljack's ever-necessary blast mask. “Yes, _oh_ ,” he said, letting a purr fill his vocals. “Do you have something pressing in the lab to attend or are you free for the evening?”   
  
“I'm free,” Wheeljack said, tone thick with desire as his field opened up to Optimus, blithely seeking to connect. “I'm definitely free. And even if I wasn't, I am now.”   
  
“Good.” Optimus' harmonics echoed the arousal trickling through his lines. “Because I believe you and I are due to some quality time together.”   
  
Wheeljack's cooling fans all ticked on in tandem, the only response Optimus received as he once again, made Wheeljack speechless.

  
***


	75. Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: OptimusxMegatron, Ironhide  
> Universe: Bayverse, pre-films  
> Warnings: twincest, spark merge  
> Description: Eventually, all is forgiven.

It started with a cube of energon, placed on the edge of his desk and slowly pushed across the surface until it nudged his knuckle.

Megatron, mouth pressed to a tight line, glanced at the energon, reading the inherent start of an apology. That it was his favorite blend was a matter of course. That it was much needed at the moment was also true.

That he didn't want to take it – and the apology – twisted at his spark.

He ignored the cube, and the mech who had offered it, and continued to concentrate on his datapad. While the details of the recent treaty with the Hentafloraxians wasn't the most stimulating of reading material, it was important. Megatron had to sign off on this draft before he could even consider sending it off to Optimus and his team of soft-sparked councilors.

The silence in the room grew. Megatron, displaying more patience than anyone gave him credit for, waited. He counted the beats, listened to the sounds of another mech's systems, one he knew more than intimately, and waited.

There was a soft sound, one of regret, before Megatron was left alone.

Apology unaccepted fragger, he thought, and concentrated on his work.

0o0o0

"How long are ya gonna keep up this silent war?" Ironhide asked as they walked down the hall from one conference room to another.

Megatron grunted a noncommittal reply.

"Ya know he didn't mean it," Ironhide continued, ever on Optimus' side even though he was supposed to be Megatron's mech.

"It's not a matter of intent. It's that he thinks he can so easily gain my forgiveness with a few petty gifts," Megatron retorted, careful to keep his snarl in check. His growling engine gave his anger away.

Ironhide made a thoughtful noise. "I think it's more likely that yer just stubborn."

There was no denying that. "Don't you have better things to do than focus on us?"

"Not when yer my boss and Optimus is my friend," Ironhide said with a grin and a roll of his shoulders. "I'm invested in both of ya."

Megatron harrumphed. "I'm not going to make it easy for the bratling."

Ironhide, at least, chuckled. "Ya never do, my lord."

0o0o0

They shared a berth but Megatron was content to recharge in the receiving room, sprawled uncomfortably across the large but torturous couch. If Optimus thought interfacing would fix his error, he was grossly mistaken. And Megatron had successfully ignored all advances for the past decaorn.

Megatron, unlike many others, was immune to that pathetic look. Oh, he was sure Optimus was sincere but he didn't understand. And until he did, Megatron was going to continue to ignore every attempt at apology.

Until Optimus, craftier than many suspected of the "adorably innocent Prime" started to play dirty.

Their bond hummed, tangible despite how tightly Megatron locked down on his end. He could feel Optimus, his brother's desire and longing. He heard the crooning, not audible, but a presence through his spark. Promise was inherent in those soft pulses.

Megatron had expected this tactic and hardened himself to it. But as usual, he was not prepared for the continued efforts of his brother. His own spark became traitorous, telling his processor to forgive and forget, for surely being beside Optimus was much better than in another room.

Megatron growled to himself. In the end, it always came down to their bond. And it was why Optimus won their arguments more often than not. It was, without a doubt, unfair.

He pushed himself off the couch, making a point to stomp as loudly as possible. He would not forgive without a fight, frag it.

The door slid open silently, not bothering to reflect his ire, and Optimus lay there on the berth, in the dark, his optics lit blue and inviting.

"I am not forgiving you," Megatron snarled as he stormed into the room, his field an agitated whirl of outrage and offense.

Optimus met him with patience and love and beneath it all, a barely concealed thread of amusement. "I am aware," he said, and he held out his arms, tempting enough that Megatron hated himself for wanting to give in. "Though I am sorry."

"No, you're not," Megatron grumbled, sliding into those arms and doing his level best to ignore the feeling of satisfaction that his spark purred as their plating came into contact. Behind the safety of Optimus' chestplate, his spark surged with recognition and Megatron's own danced in happy approval.

"I regret your anger with me," Optimus conceded, field wrapping around Megatron and guiding him deeper into the embrace. "But not my actions."

Playing politics as usual.

"Some orn I will break this hold you have on me," Megatron said, nuzzling his way into the vulnerable plating of Optimus' throat. "And then I will, at last, have won an argument."

Optimus chuckled, the sound vibrating against Megatron's lips. "If that should happen, brother, then I will lose my only advantage."

"Seems like a fair trade to me." His chestplates unlocked, eager to join with the spark that had once been part of his own.

Optimus purred, his own plates parting with a spill of pale blue light.

And in that moment, when their sparks met, all was forgiven and anger forgotten. Such was the way of things.

***


	76. Berthwarmer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Cyclonus, Swerve, Whirl, Cyclonus  
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Warnings: Does Whirl count as a warning?  
> Description: All Cyclonus wanted was some peace and quiet.

"So. Is it true?"

Cyclonus twitched, leveling Swerve with an even look.

"Is what true?" he demanded, though he had a fair notion of what Swerve demanded to know.

"That, uh, well, you know." Swerve grinned, shuffling from foot to foot.

"No. I do not. Are you going to give me my order?"

"Sure, sure."

Swerve wandered away, presumably to retrieve Cyclonus' drink. He welcomed the moment of peace, but it was only an invitation for someone else to take up the mantle.

"Now, I'm not one for gossip," Whirl said, a complete lie as he swaggered up to join Cyclonus at the bar. "But I gotta know. An aft that cute has to be a good little berthwarmer, yeah?"

Cyclonus didn't even like Whirl on a good day. Today? Didn't come close to mediocre. He twitched. He cycled through a series of responses before opting for silence. Best not to encourage Whirl lest he follow through with the urge to stab him through the spark.

Fortunately, Swerve returned with his drink, sparing Cyclonus the need to further discourage Whirl.

"C'mon Swerve, get the truth outta this guy," Whirl said, leaning against the bar, optic bright as though he's already on the short path to overcharge.

Swerve shrugged. "Been trying. But you know how it is." He leaned closer, conspiratorial. "I could make it on the house?"

Cyclonus made a low noise of disgust and turned away. There were reasons he preferred to be alone and two of them were currently whispering to each other behind his back.

Which is of course when Tailgate decided to walk into the bar, his visor immediately brightening upon sight of Cyclonus. Didn't he realize that it was reactions like that which made mechs talk?

Of course, he didn't. Because Tailgate could be a liar (and they'd had many a discussion about that) but he was also stupidly honest about a lot of things and that dichotomy was frustrating.

"Cyclonus!" If Tailgate had lips he'd be grinning from audial to audial. He lifted a hand in a wave, bouncing from foot to foot, shaking that "utterly fraggable aft" to put it in Whirl terms.

And Cyclonus bit back a sigh. He heard giggling behind him, for what else would he call that noxious noise? And he felt the optics watching him.

How was it Tailgate could always make him feel so exposed with a simple action?

"I thought you were on shift," Cyclonus said, devoting most of his attention to the lively minibot.

"I traded with Hound," Tailgate replied, and then hurried to add, "Because he asked me to not because I asked him. I remember what you said."

Cyclonus almost buried his face in his palm because while Tailgate had been quiet, he was rather certain that the two busybodies behind him had heard that statement and completely misconstrued it. He had only meant for Tailgate to stand more on his own.

"And you looked like you were leaving anyway," Tailgate continued, twisting his fingers together. "So I'll just get a drink and chat with Swerve and you can go do what you're going to do and it'll all work out."

Except that the last thing Cyclonus wanted Tailgate to do was chat with Swerve. Because Whirl was still here and Swerve wasn't above plying Tailgate with free engex to get him to talk about the questions Cyclonus wasn't answering.

"I was going to the oil reservoir," Cyclonus murmured. "You are welcome to join me."

It was worth it, he thought, to see the joy in Tailgate's visor, despite his efforts to restrain himself. Even if Cyclonus felt a tad bit guilty as the offer was made out of self-preservation.

"Okay! Let me just-"

"You can have mine," Cyclonus said, knowing that if Tailgate got within feet of Swerve, the questions would begin. He moved forward, relieved when Tailgate fell into step beside him and Cyclonus consciously eased his pace so that the shorter mech could keep up.

"Have fun!" Swerve called out after them.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do!" Whirl added with a cackle.

Cyclonus ignored them. Tailgate looked a little pink around his visor. Cyclonus bit back another sigh.

There'd be no end to the rumors now. Strange how little he seemed to mind.

****


	77. Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: SunstreakerxSideswipe  
> Universe: G1  
> Warnings: twincest, dom/sub overtones  
> Description: Sideswipe knelt on the floor, bound and blinded, but he had never felt safer.

Sunstreaker had thought of everything. He must have been planning this for weeks. Not that Sideswipe would have guessed given his neutral expression and even tone.

There was padding beneath his knees. Used to discomfort, Sideswipe didn't need it, but he appreciated the consideration.

The cloth wrapped around his helm kept him blinded. A simple sensory block would have been equally effective. But the soft brush of Sunstreaker's fingers against his facial plating and the careful manner in which he tied the knot was far more intimate. It made Sideswipe shiver, internals running hot.

Same with his wrists. Stasis cuffs would have been easier, stronger. But the cotton wrapped around his wrists was somehow better. Symbolic even. Proof positive that he was on his knees by choice, not threat.

Sideswipe's vents cycled faster.

He knelt on the floor, bound and blinded, but he had never felt safer.

"Terms?" Sunstreaker asked from somewhere in front of Sideswipe, close enough to touch if Sideswipe lifted his arms, but he knew better.

"Everything you're willing to give me," Sideswipe answered, almost ritual phrasing in an act that had become more commonplace as the war stripped hope from them.

"Hmm." There was a tinge of appreciation across their bond. "And if I go too far?"

"I'll ask you to stop." Not that he'd ever needed to. Their bond and lifelong understanding caused trust on a quantum level. But that option still needed to be available and that Sunstreaker never forgot only deepened the trust that Sideswipe gave him.

"And if you need a moment?"

"I'll ask you to wait."

"Good," Sunstreaker purred.

He shifted his weight with a soft hiss of hydraulics. He tapped something against his plating and Sideswipe's spark shivered. It could have been any manner of toy and Sideswipe's imagination was ripe with possibilities. The bond was giving nothing away.

A hand cupped Sideswipe's face, thumb stroking his cheek arch. "And who am I, Sideswipe?"

He licked his lips, engine settling into a quiet purr.

"Sunstreaker."

"But tonight?" Sunstreaker prompted, ex-venting heat against Sideswipe's frame.

He trembled. "Master." It was little more than a murmur.

"Louder."

The moan escaped him before he could consider holding back. " _Master_."

Sunstreaker's approval burst like fireworks through their bond.

"That I am," Sunstreaker said with a lingering caress of his fingers. "And now I'll show you why."

Sideswipe trembled.

****


	78. Recruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Skyfire, Megatron  
> Universe: G1  
> Warnings: None really  
> Description: Skyfire wants nothing to do with Megatron's proposition.

He wondered how soon the gossip would start.

Skyfire was used to being the subject of rumor. Given his unique introduction to the Autobots, he wasn't surprised either. He could handle it. For the most part.

This, however, could ruin him.

His wings twitched, restless energy pouring through his circuits. He wanted to fly, needed to fly. He couldn't fly.

It was safer inside the Ark. Within the volcano. Underground.

Skyfire shuddered.

He wasn't a Seeker. He didn't have the same claustrophobic tendencies. Yet, the sensation of being trapped would not let him be.

His comm pinged.

Skyfire startled hard enough to fumble his test tube, sending it crashing to the floor. His spark raced as he muttered a curse and crouched to begin cleaning up the tiny shards. Thankfully, it had been empty.

His comm pinged.

It was an older frequency, one he stopped using after his ill-fated stint with the Decepticons. Only two mechs knew this frequency and only one dared to use it after Skyfire officially joined the Autobots.

Skyfire denied the request as he'd done a hundred times before. They were getting more frequent as of late. More eager. More desperate.

Skyfire debated with himself again, now that his concentration was thoroughly demolished.

In the beginning, he'd been confused. Then flattered. Now, each day filled him with dread. Each battle sent his spark into paroxysms of fear, desperate to avoid the one mech who could undo all his hard work.

Megatron had under his command at least a dozen capable Seekers. For some reason, he'd decided that an Autobot (re: Neutral) shuttle, would make the perfect Air Commander. Despite the fact Skyfire had no real military experience. It made no logical sense. Not that Megatron had ever been accused of operating under logic.

Skyfire did not know why, only that he'd seen Starscream less and less during battle. He'd noticed the tricolored Seeker was battered and drab. Clearly, all was not right aboard the Nemesis but Skyfire did not want to get in the middle of that mess.

Skyfire had no interest in Megatron, his proposition, or leadership of the aerial forces of the Decepticons. Repeated refusals had been met with amusement. Megatron was persistent. He was charismatic. He was armed with near-convincing flattery.

And Skyfire was only a mech.

He couldn't tell the Autobots. Not when half of them expected he would return to the Decepticons, convinced he was still in love with Starscream. Or when another third believed Mirage to be a traitor despite his millennia of loyal service. Red Alert was suspicious. Prowl might wager it was in their best interest to keep Skyfire under constant surveillance.

Optimus, even given his propensity for faith, might find himself swayed by his officers.

No, Skyfire could not tell them. He could tell no one.

He could only sit in the silence of his quarters, waiting for the next ping.

***


	79. One More Sad Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: IDW, MTMTE before the Lost Light launches  
> Characters: BlasterxJazz  
> Warnings: Angst, Fluff, maybe OOC  
> Description: Because Blaster can't stay and Jazz won't go.
> 
> For tf_rare_pairing weekly prompt of Jazz/Blaster, before you go

“So. You're going.”   
  
The words are not a question. There is no judgment in the neutral tone. Just a statement of fact.   
  
“You can still come along,” Blaster says, tilting his helm back into the spray of cleanser, a luxury as of late. “Plenty of action and adventure. Didn't you tell me you were getting bored?”   
  
Dust and grime sluices down his frame, swirling into a drain that would collect said cleanser for recycling. With Cybertron in it's current state, they can't afford to waste anything, not even the so-called waste.   
  
The hands on his back still. “Aren't you tired of it?”   
  
Blaster lowers his helm, giving the question the sericous consideration it deserves. He can read the genuine disquiet in his partner's vocals.  
  
“I don't know how to do it,” he finally admits at length, because this is what has been nagging at him all along. Why he's felt so uncomfortable here in the ruins of Iacon despite having Jazz by his side. “And I won't figure that out by staying here either. Besides, I like Roddy.”   
  
A noncommittal noise and Jazz's hands pick up their steady sweeping. “And you don't like Prowl,” he says shrewdly.   
  
“Who does?” Blaster retorts, his lips quirking into a grin.   
  
Jazz chuckles and Blaster joins him. It's an inside joke, really. One that probably all of the Autobots would share, except for the mech in question. Prowl doesn't have a sense of humor.   
  
“What about Bee?”   
  
Blaster cycles a ventilation and turns to face Jazz, something in him aching to stay, though the urge passes within moments. He meant what he said.   
  
“I like him just fine,” Blaster says, cupping Jazz's face and stroking a thumb over the curve of his jaw. “But you know he can't keep this under wraps for long.”   
  
Jazz's visor flashes brighter. “At least he's trying.”   
  
Blaster shrugs. “True. But you know, there's a lot of universe left to see and who better to spread the word then 'the Voice,' eh?”   
  
“You just like to hear yourself talk.” The back of Jazz's hand raps gently on his chestplate, chiming against the solid windscreen.   
  
“Ha, ha.” Blaster rolls his optics, and lets his hand drop from Jazz. “Come on. We're wasting cleanser.”   
  
Jazz's field lightly touches his, something like apology simmering in it. “So?”   
  
“You're going to make Bumblebee give another speech about conservation and politeness and sharing and all that slag.” Blaster leans forward, hitting the panel and shutting off the spray.   
  
Jazz shakes his helm, grabbing a cloth and giving it a quick run over his frame, black and white gleaming in the pale overhead light. “Poor mech. He's not so good at the speechifying. Another reason he needs you to stick around.”   
  
“Mmm. Nice try.” Blaster is not so dim that he doesn't hear the implicit plea. Jazz would never outright ask him to change his mind or manipulate him into doing so, but he would continue to offer other options.   
  
Just in case.   
  
“Had to give it a shot.” Jazz tosses the used towel into a corner. “Got a few others up my sleeve.”   
  
Blaster shakes his helm and closes the distance between them, ignoring the dampness of his own armor as he drags Jazz into an embrace. It's always a risk to hold Jazz. Sometimes, he squirms free because he can't stand the closeness. Other times, he melts into an embrace as though it's his last connection to sanity.   
  
This is somehow between the two extremes.   
  
Silence settles until Blaster tunes himself into the music of Jazz's frame, the whump of ventilations, and the more distant beat of his spark.   
  
“Won't be the same without you around,” Jazz finally says, his tone carefully light.   
  
Blaster's own spark stutters. “I'm only a comm away.”   
  
“Don't you die either.”   
  
“Have you seen the crew manifest?” Because Blaster has and it's a formula for trouble, a Wheeljack-sized explosion.   
  
“And my point is made.”   
  
Despite himself, Blaster laughs softly. Jazz is right, of course. There's no guarantee Blaster's going to come back alive. Just as there is no guarantee Blaster will return to a united Cybertron. Or even one that's been partially restored. The entire political balance could implode while they are gone.   
  
He supposes those are the chances he has to take. Because Blaster can't stay and Jazz won't go and sometimes, a compromise can't be made.   
  
“You staying?” Jazz asks, his vocals echoing in the washrack, silent save for their ventilations and the drip-drip of a leaking nozzle.  
  
Blaster strokes a hand down Jazz's back, memorizing the sleek feel of his plating, and storing such memories for later. “Until I have to go,” he says.  
  
It's all the concession he can make. And he hopes, some miracle of Primus might occur, and it will turn into the best choice he could have made. For both of them.   
  


***


	80. Conversational Incentive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: BlasterxTracks  
> Description: Tracks is on duty. Blaster just called to say hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the tf-rare-pairing prompt "Tracks/Blaster, G1 or IDW, speaking in tongues, trick or treat"

“Busy, my love?”   
  
The purr spills into his private line, stirring Tracks from the monotony of third-shift monitor duty. That it first comes across as French, his processor automatically translating, makes it all the more enticing.   
  
“For you? Never,” Tracks responds in kind, careful to conceal his pleased smile from the others sharing his shift.   
  
Blaster's amused chuckle bubbles over the line, stirring Tracks' spark. “Red Alert's not on shift, I take it?” he asks, this time in English.   
  
“No, my dear. It's Jazz.” Tracks bites back his own laugh. The game of pet names has become a running joke between them.   
  
“Good,” Blaster purrs, once again in French.   
  
Realization slowly dawns. Tracks lips curl. Ah, so it's to be one of those conversations.   
  
He shifts in his chair. “Did you have something in mind?”   
  
“Just a chat.” Blaster's vocals are warm, like spiced energon, and the language is Raoul's, a delicate caress to Tracks' finely tuned audials. “I know you're bored. I thought I'd call, give you something better to focus on.”   
  
Tracks cycles a ventilation, steals a glance around the command center, but no one's paying him a whit of attention. Yet.   
  
“I am on duty,” he reminds his mischievous lover. Not that it's stopped Blaster before.   
  
“I know. Isn't that half the thrill of it?”   
  
“Not if it gets me brig time.”   
  
Blaster hums across the line. “I'll make it worth your while,” he murmurs, words laced with promise, glossa rolling at him in the language of love.   
  
Tracks shivers. He stares at the monitors. He tries to focus but all he can see are blurs. He's thinking of the last time Blaster pinned him to berth, inciting him to overload by words alone, purring over his spark, every sound vibration stirring him higher and higher.  
  
“You always do,” he replies belatedly, perhaps more delayed than is socially acceptable for a conversation.   
  
His field flares in remembrance before Tracks can rein it in. The images now, are brighter, sharper, more engaging. He shifts in the chair, it creaking beneath him, but all he can picture is the wicked promise no doubt in Blaster's optics.   
  
Thank Primus Jazz is the one on shift. It'll make it only slightly less embarrassing when Tracks completely loses control.   
  
“I thought so,” Blaster says, far too smug, and then, because he's as mischievous as he is tempting, he adds, “What are you wearing, sweetheart?” and Tracks can't decide if he's going to laugh or wheeze out a ventilation.   
  
He ends up doing both, prompting Jazz to ask if he's all right and Tracks to offer a reassurance that's anything but.   
  
“My shift ends in two hours,” Tracks tartly informs his lover, amusement warring with the arousal Blaster has stirred in him. “You will pay for that.”   
  
“Promises, promises, dear spark,” Blaster sings, smug, before he disconnects the private line, leaving Tracks with a heated spark, rising charge, and boring monitors.   
  
Fortunately, Tracks has two hours to think of a suitable punishment. One they will both enjoy very, very much.   
  


***


	81. Draw Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: BluestreakxSunstreaker, Sideswipe  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Bluestreak makes a bargain for some berth-time.

“Hey, Sunny.”  
  
He didn't have any time to growl a protest at the loathed nickname before Bluestreak vaulted the back of the couch and landed neatly in Sunstreaker's lap.  
  
Sunstreaker growled, scrambling to keep from dropping his datapad and flailing like a moron. “What?” he demanded, though it was difficult to remain tetchy when Bluestreak's field vibrated with glee.  
  
Bluestreak draped his arms over Sunstreaker's shoulders, snuggling closer as he grinned. “Draw me like one of your French girls.”  
  
Sunstreaker blinked. “Uh... what?”  
  
Giggling from the doorway was all the evidence Sunstreaker needed as to the perpetrator who instigated this sudden and perplexing statement.  
  
Bluestreak's own mouth curved more. “I said...” He wriggled enticingly, metal sliding on metal with inviting vibrations as his voice dropped to a purr. “Draw me like one of your French girls.”  
  
“What does that even mean?” Sunstreaker demanded.  
  
In the doorway, Sideswipe collapsed into gasping laughter, more amused by his so-called prank than seemed logical.  
  
Bluestreak leaned in, his helm sliding against Sunstreaker's in a delicate caress that didn't so much as mark his paint. “It means whatever you want it to mean, lover,” he said, field vibrating with amusement as much as desire.  
  
Sunstreaker sighed, resigning himself to being the object of their amusement. “You should know better than to help my brother's schemes by now,” he said, setting his datapad aside to rest his hand on Bluestreak's hips. “What did you get out of it?”  
  
Bluestreak nipped at a helm vent and Sunstreaker very carefully did not shudder. “The berth to ourselves. All night. Sideswipe will be elsewhere.”  
  
“Really now?” Sunstreaker's irritation vanished. “I think we got the better end of the deal.”  
  
Bluestreak chuckled, his hips performing a shimmy that had to be illegal. “I thought so, too.”  
  
“The look on your face was priceless,” Sideswipe said, picking himself up from the floor only to drape himself on the back of the couch.  
  
“You are a moron,” Sunstreaker informed him and returned his attention to his lover, whose engine was now purring with invitation. “You're not on shift?”  
  
“Not anytime soon. Which means I have plenty of time to frag you into the berth.” Bluestreak's doorwings fluttered, his frame emanating heat.  
  
“I like the sound of that.” Sunstreaker's right hand drifted lower, giving a pat to Bluestreak's aft. “You just have to get rid of my brother.”  
  
“Easy.” Bluestreak grinned before he looked at Sideswipe. “I'm cashing in. Shoo.”  
  
“Sir, yes, sir!” Sideswipe pulled off a half-sparked salute and made an exit, but not without another laugh to himself.  
  
Idiot.  
  
“Now,” Bluestreak said, attention returning to Sunstreaker. “Where were we?”  
  
“Right about here, I think.” Sunstreaker said and pulled him in for a kiss.  


***


	82. Can I Keep Him?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sunstreaker, Bob, Nautica, Chromia, Background Cybertronians  
> Universe: IDW post-Dark Cybertron   
> Rating: PG  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: Bob has a knack for making new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to ladydragon76 for the initial prompt.

Bob's habit of tackling anyone he considered 'friendly' had become so commonplace aboard the _Lost Light_ that it didn't bother anyone anymore. Well, exact for the most hardaft among them, but Bob wouldn't have tackled them anyway. Or he would, just to be a nuisance and because it amused Bob to watch them curse and swear vengeance, but know better than to shoot.   
  
After all, when Rodimus said “you are not allowed to shoot the Insecticon” then he frag well meant “you can't shoot the fragging Insecticon, idiot!” Blades learned that the hard way.   
  
So when Bob took off between one moment and the next, Sunstreaker didn't give chase. He was already nursing a damaged hip and he'd been told in no uncertain terms to go easy on it and since he was well-accustomed to what it felt like to not have use of his legs, Sunstreaker was inclined to obey. He just watched Bob take off and lit up the comm network with the broad _watch out_ that everyone on the _Lost Light_ had come to recognize as all the warning they'd get.   
  
Sunstreaker followed the tracker he'd had Ratchet install on Bob (because the damn bug kept wandering when he wasn't supposed to and Sunstreaker got tired of sending out comms to track him down) and wondered who Bob tackled this time. He limped through crowds of mechs, some of them unfamiliar, some of them not, and right now, in the wake of whatever the frag that was (Metrotitans and Prowls and Constructions, Sunstreaker didn't even want to get started on comprehending that) Sunstreaker supposed it didn't matter.   
  
They were all back at the same starting point.   
  
Ahead of him, he heard a shout. The vocals weren't outright familiar, not that he knew all of the crewmembers that closely. He expected Bob to go after one of his favorites, Tailgate or Skids or Smokescreen or, weirdly enough, First Aid.   
  
By the time Sunstreaker made it through the crowd, the shock had turned to laughter and something akin to giggling.   
  
What Autobot with any respect for himself would giggle?  
  
And then he got his answer. He didn't know this Autobot, but apparently Bob did. Or at least he wanted to.   
  
“Oh my. He's so cute!” More laughter.   
  
Bob chirped, wriggled his aft, and tried to climb further into the lap of the purple Autobot. He was ecstatic as hands petted over his helm and his plating because everyone knew that he was a neglected bug who never received the attention he deserved.   
  
Sunstreaker rolled his optics and folded his arms. He almost didn't have words, and an apology definitely wasn't among them.   
  
“Nautica, that's an Insecticon!” another Autobot said before Sunstreaker could speak, sounding horrified, and the noise of weapons being engaged overrode the laughter.   
  
Sunstreaker bristled.   
  
“But he's friendly!” Nautica argued and Sunstreaker only belated recognized who she was. Her name had lit up the Autobot network recently. “Aren't you?”   
  
Bob chirped again, optics big and bright and innocent. That look, right there, is pretty much the one that won him First Aid.   
  
“See? Friendly!”   
  
The other Autobot, blue and white, huffed a ventilation. “Yes. Until he bites your arm off.”   
  
“He doesn't bite,” Sunstreaker said, limping closer and drawing Bob's attention. “Unless you aim a gun at him, that is.” Brawn had learned that particular lesson. “Bob. Come here.”   
  
Bob chirred and hunkered down.   
  
Sunstreaker revved his engine, letting the bug know he was serious.   
  
“Aw, he doesn't want to,” Nautica said, patting Bob on the helm again. “Can I keep him?”  
  
Sunstreaker absolutely did not panic. “No!” he snapped just as the blue Autobot sneered, “Absolutely not.”   
  
Nautica cycled her optics. The blue Autobot checked her blaster again.   
  
Sunstreaker performed a systems check. Had that been an alarmed shout? He would never admit it. “He's not for adopting,” Sunstreaker added, lamely, and looked his bug in the optics. “Bob. Here. _Now_.” The implied 'bad boy' lingered in his tone.   
  
Bob obeyed, though not without dramatics. He climbed ever so slowly off Nautica's lap and slunked over to Sunstreaker, helm lowered and frame tucked close to his legs. His optics even dimmed. Primus. It would be irritating if it wasn't so fragging cute.   
  
“I don't think I could have kept him anyway,” Nautica said, getting up and brushing off her frame. She sounded disappointed.   
  
“Honestly, Nautica. What would you do with an Insecticon?” the blue Autobot demanded, her frown disapproving.   
  
Bob pressed against Sunstreaker's legs, every bit the dejected bug. He absently reached down, patting Bob on the helm.   
  
“You said I need a hobby,” Nautica countered, shrugging. “And one that wasn't quantum mechanics.”  
  
“I didn't mean for you to adopt a glitched piece of Decepticon warfare!”   
  
Sunstreaker was insulted on Bob's behalf. “Hey!” He bristled, reminded himself of his healing hip, and gritted his denta. “He's not glitched!”   
  
“Of course he isn't.” The blue Autobot's optics raked Sunstreaker up and down, measuring and then dismissing, before hooking Nautica's elbow and turning her away. “Come on. We have work to do.”  
  
Nautica sighed and waved back at them. “Duty calls. Goodbye, Bob.”   
  
He chirred at her.   
  
“Traitor,” Sunstreaker muttered.   
  
Bob blinked at him.   
  
“You always go for the shiny ones,” Sunstreaker added, turning away from Nautica, her friend, and the now dispersing crowd they'd gathered. “With the pretty paint jobs.”   
  
Bob chirped as if to say 'well, duh' as he looked at his master.   
  
Sunstreaker shook his helm. “Let's go,” he said. “Maybe I can find some energon treats for you.”   
  
Bob's excited leap almost sent him sprawling. Stupid bug.

***


	83. Differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: BlasterxTracks  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: hints of sticky   
> Description: No one understands them. No one has to.

Tracks prefers to recharge on his front, which works out perfectly well for Blaster because there's nothing he enjoys more than the sight. Tracks' aft is a construction to be admired, which he tells his partner often.   
  
Blaster also enjoys trailing kisses down Tracks' backstrut, pausing to lave attention over his sensitive spoiler with teasing nips. He loves the way Tracks quivers, his aft pushing up, field leaking arousal.   
  
It's Blaster's favorite position, to blanket Tracks from behind, his hands mapping every inch of perfectly polished plating. He loves to feel Tracks shuddering and writhing beneath him, the desperate clamp of his valve, the eager flutter of his winglets.   
  
They don't recharge like that, of course. Because while Tracks likes to lay on his front, Blaster prefers to lay on his back, one arm propped under his helm.   
  
It all works out for the best considering the narrowness of their berth. Tracks splays across Blaster's frame as though it's the most comfortable cushion, his helm pillowed on Blaster's dock.   
  
He claims it's because Blaster runs hotter than normal mechs. Which is true. And Tracks enjoys the heat beneath him, their frames pressed and notched together, as if they belong.   
  
It brings new significance to the phrase “opposites attract.” Because while Blaster likes his energon violent and dark, gritty to the end with a taste that lingers, Tracks enjoys his better fresh and floaty, like drinking a ray of sunlight.   
  
Tracks likes the quiet; Blaster likes to play his music so that it rattles the walls and makes his frame vibrate. He wants to feel the beat, down to the sensitive metal of his spark chamber, and when he sings along, it doesn't matter that he's out of tune. It matters that he loves doing it.   
  
Tracks endures with an optic roll. But at least they can both agree on one thing: classic rock trumps all others.   
  
They both hate the war and are resigned to it, indulging in what little pleasures they can scrape together around the violence and the terror and the underlying current of despair. They cling tighter to each other, even during the occasional argument that happens when two vibrant personalities inhabit the same space.   
  
But there's little left that Blaster has to remind him of Cybertron. He has his cassettes and they are the best friends a mech could ask for. He has a new joy, all the tunes to be found on Earth. And he still has Tracks, lost and then found again, his partner in crime for all that matters.   
  
Their relationship has never made sense to anyone and Blaster's long since learned that it doesn't have to. It only has to be what they want and need.

***


	84. Santa Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: SunstreakerxSideswipe, background Autobots  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: crack, twincest   
> Description: Sideswipe does a little dance. Sunstreaker is both impressed and amused. Jazz feels challenged. 
> 
> Special thanks to fuzipenguin for the initial prompt.

When the opening refrains of the song spilled into the rec room, Sunstreaker knew who was to blame. He sighed, tucked his datapad away, and waited for the show to begin. Amusingly, he was not the only one who did so.   
  
Conversation died. The song got louder. All optics turned toward the open door. And Sideswipe sashayed in to an audience, just like the glitch surely wanted.   
  
Thank Primus he didn't sing along to the cheerful, holiday song. But the twist and sway to his hips had to be illegal in several galaxies.   
  
Sunstreaker planted a frown on his face, arched an orbital ridge, and pretended that he wasn't at all affected by the floor show. Even as it flounced his way.   
  
Someone in the crowd snickered. It was probably Jazz, jealous that he hadn't thought of it first. Which only meant that next week, Jazz would show up with something even more outrageous. And Sunstreaker had a sudden image of a Christmas song dance off as his brother and Jazz battled to see who could get the most whistles.   
  
And as usual, it would be Sideswipe's fault.   
  
Sunstreaker sighed again, and folded his arms over his chestplate. Even as artfully polished red plating sparkled as it danced toward him. A red-plated aft shook his direction, teasing and taunting and Sunstreaker almost slapped it. But for Sideswipe, that wasn't much of a deterrent.   
  
It was encouragement.   
  
Sunstreaker tapped his pede as the song picked up in crescendo, as some human female crooned for Santa to bring her gifts. To “shimmy down her chimney.” Pah. For a child's holiday, there was a looooot of subtext in their songs.   
  
Or was that obvious-text?   
  
Either way, Sideswipe capitalized on the tune by inviting himself onto Sunstreaker's lap, performing a languid slide of his frame that would have earned him a credit or several out on the streets of Kaon.   
  
His frame hummed with heat, his field sliding teasingly over Sunstreaker's as if inviting him to play.   
  
_You're an idiot_ , Sunstreaker said over their bond, clenching his hands to keep from touching. The song aside, Sideswipe was as irresistible as he thought he was. No need to prove it in front of everyone.   
  
_But you still want to touch me_ , Sideswipe sang back, aft bobbing and weaving and dancing lewdly across Sunstreaker's lap. _Where's my ring? I want you to make an honest man out of me._  
  
 _There's nothing honest about you,_ Sunstreaker retorted, though his lips twitched.   
  
Sideswipe pouted, a wholly attractive look. _You're so mean._   
  
_And you're heavy._ With an almighty shove, Sunstreaker tossed his brother to the floor, perfectly timed to the last beat of the song.   
  
He hit with an ungainly clatter and ungraceful flailing of his limbs. Sunstreaker broke into a grin and chuckled while Sideswipe's audience found it all highly amusing.   
  
“Struck out again, Siders,” Jazz said from the nearest edge of the crowd. And yeah, that was definitely a gleam of challenge in his visor.   
  
“Maybe this time,” Sideswipe admitted, picking himself up and making a show of brushing off his plating. He winked an optic. “But I've still got it.”   
  
Sunstreaker harrumphed, turning his helm away. _Dance for me later_ , he said.   
  
_I always do_ , Sideswipe purred.

***


	85. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream, Bluestreak   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: author speculation and wild theories, implications of Bad Things   
> Description: The last Autobot Starscream expected to see walking into the brig was Bluestreak. 
> 
> Special thanks to starfire201 for the initial prompt!

The last Autobot Starscream expected to see walking into the brig was Bluestreak. Not just because he knew the sniper was not a Special Ops mech, but because their shared history made the chances of him being granted a visit nonexistent. Either someone hadn't read Bluestreak's file, or they were more than aware and thought it could be used to their advantage.   
  
Starscream narrowed his optics, straightening on his cot. If they thought their pathetic attempts at mind games were going to work, they were sorely mistaken.   
  
“Did they send you?” Starscream asked.   
  
Bluestreak tilted his helm, optics dimming as he looked at Starscream through the energy bars. “Do you want the honest answer or a lie? Because we can play this two ways. I know which one I prefer, but you've always been something of a contradiction.”   
  
Starscream chuckled, flicking his wings out of the way so he could get comfortable. “Mm. I taught you well.”   
  
“Actually, there wasn't much you taught me that I remember.” Bluestreak snagged a chair and brought it closer, making himself comfortable as though he planned to stay awhile. “That's what happens, I guess, when someone bombs your hometown and leaves you buried under the rubble for so long, that by the time rescuers dig you out, you're on the twilight of stasis lock, talking to ghosts.”   
  
Starscream did not flinch, but only because he'd gotten so much practice at concealing his reactions. “Uraya was supposed to be safe.”   
  
“And did you honestly think I would stay there? That I could?” Bluestreak's sensory panels, pale mockery of a Seeker's wings, go rigid. “It may have bordered Praxus, but I stood out enough that everyone could see me for what I was.”   
  
Starscream narrowed his optics. “You always were ashamed of your lineage.”   
  
“There wasn't much in it to give me pride.” Bluestreak inclined his helm, the edge of his smirk all too familiar to Starscream. “Though I did learn a valuable lesson. Along with many, many valuable skills.”   
  
“In torture?” Starscream arched a brow.   
  
Bluestreak waved a hand of dismissal. “If pain motivated you, Megatron would have a lot fewer issues with backstabbing usurpers. I could threaten to take away your wings, but we both know I won't do that. Frag, I could make any threat and you wouldn't believe me capable of doing it. The Autobots are too soft-sparked. They have principles. Morals. A line they refuse to cross.”   
  
Starscream pressed his lips together briefly. There was something to Bluestreak's tone that didn't sit right. “They didn't send you down here,” he realized aloud. “And they don't know you're here either.”   
  
He glanced out of his cell, at the cameras that were always present in his previous stints in the brig, abbreviated though they were. How curious that they were no longer pointed his direction. Though wouldn't someone notice that inconsistency? Wouldn't their paranoid security director realize their very-important-prisoner was not under observation?  
  
“No, they don't.” Bluestreak pushed to his pedes, close enough to the energy bars that they snap at his plating. “I think, maybe, I have ten minutes before someone realizes something's wrong. It is just long enough.”   
  
“For what?” Starscream barked a laugh. He faced Megatron every day. What could an Autobot do to him that would be worse?  
  
Bluestreak's optics flashed. “For you to remember that I'm not all Autobot,” he growled. “And I know how to make you talk. Isn't that right, _Mother_?” The human term, somehow, was far more crass and insulting.   
  
Starscream cycled a ventilation. He wouldn't call what coiled in his spark fear, but it certainly wasn't excitement either. Bluestreak had been taking great effort to shoot Starscream out of the sky for the entirety of the war. That he would choose now to verbally acknowledge their relationship bode nothing but ill tidings.   
  
In this, Starscream would have preferred a visit from Jazz. At least the Special Ops commander was predictable.   
  
There was no way, however, Starscream could have prepared himself for this.

 

***

 


	86. In the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron  
> Universe: Transformers: Prime, post-Predacons Rising  
> Warnings: Spoilers   
> Description: What does a gladiator do with himself when the war has been lost and there is no one left to fight?

He has nowhere to go.   
  
He contemplates leaving Cybertron altogether, but even in its current state and on his own, Cybertron is still home.   
  
How ironic that the Autobots have chosen to reside in Kaon. It is where Megatron would have gone but that option is not available to him. So he goes to Iacon. Where else is there for a failure?   
  
The shower of sparks has slowed to a trickle, Megatron notices. He takes a perch on the highest structure left in Iacon and stares into the distance, toward Kaon. It doesn't escape his notice that the landscape between the two is littered with the scars of war. It will take more than the Omega Lock and Optimus' sacrifice to restore Cybertron to her former glory.   
  
Megatron's shoulders sink.   
  
He had done this. And what had it brought him?   
  
In a way, he'd accomplished his goals. Cybertronians no longer suffer under Quintesson-based rule. They are no longer guided by strictures that confine them. There is no council or Prime to limit the heights a mech can reach.   
  
And Megatron emerges lord of nothing, with a legacy of death and destruction and loss behind him. Much like his namesake.   
  
He will not go down in history as a hero, but as a villain. A murderer who destroyed his planet for the sake of his own tyranny. That is how he will be remembered. Once, they had chanted his name because he was their champion. Now he has become equivalent to Unicron, not only metaphorically, but in frame. If they speak of him, it will be in whispers, hushed murmurings of fear.   
  
Once, that fear would have been enough for Megatron. Not so much now.   
  
Megatron's armor clamps tightly against his frame, foreign with the extra weight. He does not wish to look down at himself and see what he's become, how Unicron had twisted his frame to suit his own ends, so that Megatron only resembles a shadow of himself.   
  
What use is there in perpetuating the Decepticon movement now? Total domination? What will that bring him in the end? When he's killed all who oppose him and all that are left are the most violent, the most twisted, and cruel. When he can't trust the mech beside him for fear of being stabbed in the backplate.  
  
He wonders if it might have been madness. If his personal fury and struggle to survive had morphed his sanity into something that couldn't see the construction for its gears.   
  
Orion had tried to tell him. And he had not listened. And then he became Optimus Prime and if there is one thing Megatron still knows to be true, he will not bow to a Prime. He will not open his audials to one.   
  
He could never be friends with Optimus Prime. That is Orion's betrayal.   
  
Megatron looks at his hands, the claws designed for rending, the talons for tearing. They are crafted for destruction.   
  
What does a gladiator do with himself when the war has been lost and there is no one left to fight?  
  
He pulls his hands into fists.   
  
He supposes now he'll have to find out.   
  
Orion would have been proud of him.

***


	87. Watching You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: DriftxRodimus  
> Universe: MTMTE, pre-Overlord arc  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: implications of sexual content  
> Description: Recharge is probably the only time Rodimus ever looks innocent.

Recharge is probably the only time Rodimus ever looks innocent. Drift snickers and then goes back to admiring. 

Rodimus has no shame in this or anything else. He sprawls across the berth, takes up every bit of space he can, and recharges with his mouth partially open. It's actually kind of cute. 

He also recharges like a lump of lead. 

Drift grins and traces the flames emblazoned on his captain's chestplate. It's a feather-light touch but any proper warrior ought to register it and burst online. A Decepticon certainly would. Rodimus doesn't. 

Because he's that comfortable? Because he trusts Drift that much? Because no one ever taught him the value of constant awareness?

Who knows. 

Drift's engine purrs softly, circuits still singing from that last overload. He could lay here until the next shift, just watching Rodimus recharge. 

It's the only time Rodimus is truly quiet. 

Drift's grin widens and he has to push down the laughter. Not that it would wake Rodimus anyway. 

It's the trust, he decides as his light touches trace the edge of each armor plate and whisper over Rodimus' ventral armor. And that thought makes him bloom with warmth. 

Rodimus trusts him. It's almost as intoxicating as the overload they just shared. It doesn't matter that this isn't serious. 

It matters that Drift can lie here next to Rodimus and both of them are at ease. 

Until Rodimus twitches. “Stop staring,” he murmurs without opening his optics. “You're gonna give me a complex.” 

Drift chuckles. “You already have one.” 

“Mmm. Good point.” One hand flops out blindly and hooks on Drift's shoulder. “Recharge. That's an order.” 

He turns his head, pressing a kiss to the bright fingers. “Sir, yes, sir.” 

Rodimus' engine purrs his approval and his field slips back toward recharge, but his hand, Drift notices, stays on Drift's shoulder. Keeping him here. Where he wants to be anyway. 

Trust, Drift thinks, is worth it all.


	88. Souvenirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: ArceexLockdown  
> Universe: Animated, post-S3  
> Warnings: unhealthy relationship   
> Description: The war was forever and a day. It was time to move on.

This, Arcee realizes, is a very unhealthy relationship. One might even call it an obsession, but on who's end, she's not sure. 

She's not even sure how she got here. How she went from loathing to apathy to lust. 

The war was forever and a day ago. But also just a blink. She remembers some of it vividly. Other parts are grainy like archival footage. 

And she certainly hadn't expected that running across Lockdown on the aft end of the galaxy would have led to this. 

This being the frantic push-pull of two frames. A hook lodged around one armor plate. Her fingers gripping a waist nearly narrower than her own. His plating as marked and heated as hers. Energon on her lips from a violent kiss, energon on his chin from her retaliation. 

She is the one who challenges. He rises to the bait, purring at her with vocals that make her spark sing. Charge crackles between them, too much and too soon and not enough. 

The aftermath leaves her panting and him dazed. 

And she thinks that there are better ways to extract information, though certainly less pleasurable. Lockdown can only think to offer her a trophy. She refuses, unless he's willing to part with something he truly values. 

“All I got is my spark, sweetheart,” he purrs. 

It might come to the point where Arcee takes it. But for now, she leaves him sprawled on the floor of his ship, knowing she'll be back. And he knows it too, if that blown kiss is any indication. He must have spent too much time on Earth. 

In the streetlight, Arcee frowns at the scrapes in her paint. Souvenirs on their own, she thinks. 

If only Ratchet could see her now. Wouldn't he be appalled?

Arcee smirks, rolls her shoulders, and takes on her altmode, engine purring. She's got a criminal to catch.


	89. Never Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet, unrequited Ratchet/Optimus  
> Universe: TFP, post-Predacons Rising  
> Warnings: Angst, spoilers maybe   
> Description: Regret is the hardest weight to bear.

It's a lot quieter now. Which isn't to say that Optimus was loud, but that the Autobots themselves are subdued. 

There is joy certainly, but it is tempered with loss. 

Ratchet never expected Optimus to go before him. It is most unfair and no, Ratchet doesn't care that he sounds like a newspark saying such things. 

He misses Optimus. He misses Orion Pax. He misses the both of them, apart and together, all of their facets. 

What he wouldn't give to have either beside him again. 

The days are duller. Ratchet does not return to Earth. The children are only painful reminders of everything he should've said and the mistakes he'd made. 

He tries to keep busy. There is enough to repair or build that Ratchet is never short on work. 

It doesn't help. It's not distraction enough. 

Recharge is an exercise in futility. Not even the sight of Cybertron, alive and flush with new life, is enough consolation. 

He keeps the Star Sabre. No one else wanted to claim it. No one else can use it. But it takes pride of place on the wall. Sometimes, Ratchet swears he can still feel Optimus within it. 

Regret, Ratchet sighs, is the hardest weight to bear. 

He spends most of his night-cycles alone, staring into the stars, remembering the first shower of newsparks. He often wonders if any of them are Orion reborn. Orion deserves a chance at life without the burdens of being Prime. Ratchet would leave all this behind just to enjoy that with him. 

It's a fool's dream. 

Eventually, Ratchet goes back to his medbay and lab and endless string of projects, each leaving him more lonely than before. 

Eventually, he hopes, it will get easier. Eventually.


	90. Partners in Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bluestreak, Skywarp  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+   
> Description: Bluestreak has had it up to here with Sideswipe's shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Skywinder for the initial prompt.

Bluestreak didn't know how many rules he was breaking. Prowl was going to be furious. Red Alert was going to fry several circuits.   
  
Optimus would probably approve though. And Ratchet most definitely. Ratchet would pat him on the back and offer him a whole bottle of aged high grade in celebration.   
  
Because it was high-time someone taught Sideswipe a lesson. Punishment didn't work on him, not reprimands or brig-time or citations. Beating him up was not only not an option, but it didn't work either. And then you ran the risk of getting Sunstreaker on your aft.   
  
But enough was enough. It was time Sideswipe got a taste of his own medicine.   
  
And who better to help than Skywarp?  
  
Skywarp, who'd seen Bluestreak cursing over the results of yet another prank, and _vopped_ on down to investigate. That was, after he'd stopped laughing.   
  
Orange glitter was not Bluestreak's color. Especially when it clogged up his vents and he kept sneezing bursts of it. Oh, he'd make Sunstreaker help scrub it off later as an apology, but that wasn't enough.   
  
Bluestreak was tired of being the enduring, forgiving friend forcing a smile when he was the aft of every joke.   
  
It wasn't funny anymore.   
  
And Skywarp had rubbed his hands together in glee. He wanted some payback, too. Even if Bluestreak insisted on the non-lethal, non-harmful sort.   
  
Skywarp came in handy. He was as devious as Sideswipe and he could teleport.   
  
It would be the prank to end all pranks. It would make Sideswipe bow to Bluestreak, worshiping his genius. And then vow to never cross Bluestreak again for fear of his revenge.   
  
It would become an Autobot legend.   
  
“It'll also be fun!” Skywarp cackled, jostling him with an elbow.   
  
“Whatever.” Bluestreak didn't so much care for fun as he cared for wiping that grin of his friend's face. “Hand me that welder.”   
  
Sideswipe was never going to see this coming.

 

***


	91. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Mine  
> Characters: OptimusxSoundwave  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: rope bondage, dom/sub   
> Description: On his knees, bound with rope, Soundwave should have been the picture of submission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to tumblr anon for the initial prompt.

The ropes had been a great idea. Optimus vowed to thank Ratchet later, perhaps with a bottle of the medic's favorite vintage high grade.   
  
He sat back, admiring his work, copied from one of the many templates Ratchet had also gifted to him along with the coils of thick and durable rope. The tan hemp was a beautiful contrast to the dark, polished blue of Soundwave's armor.   
  
It crisscrossed over the telepath's frame, narrow and elongated diamonds cutting a swathe over dark plating. Thick knots aligned with transformation seams, pressing in and preventing them from drawing together, forcing the plating to rattle in place, trapped between drawing tight and comfortably loose.   
  
Soundwave's cannon was gone, set aside, leaving room for his arms to be bound above his head, also webbed with rope. Even his fingers were wound, though with thinner strands, keeping them pinned in place. There would be no escape for the Decepticon spy. And no help from his cassettes either.   
  
They were elsewhere, beyond communications. And even if they had been present, the knotted length of rope wrapped over his dock would have prevented their deployment.   
  
On his knees, bound with rope, Soundwave should have been the picture of submission. But there was a slow burn in his visor, the fierce barrier of his face mask, that gave him a defiant cast. His field was withdrawn, albeit trembling, and gave away nothing of his underlying emotion.   
  
He didn't react as Optimus circled him. Nor when Optimus traced the ropes and brushed the heated armor beneath. Soundwave was running hot, his engine humming, but there was no other indication of potential arousal.   
  
Optimus could leave Soundwave here all night if he wanted. Kneeling and bound, waiting for Optimus' attention, his pleasure. And Soundwave would not beg.   
  
Optimus circled back around to Soundwave's front, his shadow falling over the carrier mech. He traced one finger down the seam in Soundwave's facemask. The visor burned a little brighter. Expectant? Perhaps.   
  
But Optimus was not ready to make any demand yet. He wanted to enjoy for a little while longer.   
  
One knot lodged beneath Soundwave's arm, forcing open a delicate seam. Optimus hooked a finger where there was a little slack in the rope and gave it a tug. The rope creaked. Soundwave leaned toward him by a fraction. There was a sharp ventilation.   
  
Optimus smirked behind his mask.   
  
He released the rope, letting the knot slide snugly back into place. It's current position left it pressed directly against a sensor node. It could not have been comfortable.   
  
Yet Soundwave did not make a noise. It was that stoicism which made him so appealing to Optimus.   
  
“I hope that you refueled before you came to me,” Optimus said as his hands mapped the contours of Soundwave's frame without actually touching the increasingly heated metal. “I intend to enjoy you all night.”   
  
The visor deepened in hue and behind it, Optimus knew all focus was given to him.   
  
“Unless, of course, you have any objections?”   
  
Not a murmur. Not a whimper. But the quiet click of a cooling fan whirring to life was all the answer Optimus needed.   
  
He cradled Soundwave's helm with one hand, stroking Soundwave's facemask with his thumb. “I thought as much,” Optimus murmured. “Thank you.”   
  
And Soundwave, ever so fractionally, tilted his helm into Optimus' hand.

 

***


	92. Game On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Game On  
> Characters: Sideswipe/Sunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: sticky, twincest   
> Description: This was the side of Sunstreaker that the other Autobots weren't allowed to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to fuzipenguin for the initial prompt.

Sideswipe peppered Sunstreaker's face with sloppy kisses, laughing as his brother kept turning his helm in a vain effort to avoid them.   
  
"Sides!" Sunstreaker protested, but he was smiling and all but giggling, wriggling around on the berth.   
  
Sideswipe laughed and licked a helm vent, something which he knew to be ticklish.   
  
Sunstreaker grappled with him using only his legs as Sideswipe had firmly pinned down his arms. They flopped over the berth and Sideswipe kicked the wall with a loud thunk.   
  
Ooops. He'll have to apologize to Smokescreen tomorrow. Mech was probably sleeping.   
  
"Maybe I want to be on top this time," Sideswipe said and covered Sunstreaker's mouth with his own, muffling Sunstreaker's outrage with his glossa.   
  
Sunny tasted sweet and bubbly, like the high grade they just finished consuming. It had a kick to it, Ratchet's special stash, and wouldn't that come back to bite them later? But later was later and now was Sunstreaker laughing and squirming beneath him, all hot and bothered and pretending that he hated the affection Sideswipe was lavishing on him, but his field spoke of nothing but happiness.   
  
This was the side of Sunstreaker he never let the other Autobots see. And Sideswipe had to admit he was glad for it. This side of Sunstreaker was all his own. He didn't have to share. Happy, giggling Sunstreaker was his and his alone.   
  
And then Sunstreaker hooked a leg around his hip, rolled them sharply to the left and right off the berth. There was a moment where Sideswipe flailed at the berth, trying to keep them from tumbling off, but all it accomplished was dragging down the pillows with them.   
  
They hit with a clatter, Sunstreaker on top this time. Sideswipe's gyros spun, struggling to readjust. Not that he minded since Sunstreaker now perched astride him, smirking as though he hadn't just sent them tumbling.   
  
"I win," he said with a dance of his hips that called to Sideswipe's hands. His panel snapped open, dribbling lubricant over Sideswipe's abdominal armor. “Open.”   
  
Sideswipe gripped Sunstreaker's hips, thumbs sweeping into plating gaps. “Why? You wanna ride a Lamborghini?”  
  
Sunstreaker actually snickered at the joke. “Yeah, I do. So open up. Or I'll have to go somewhere else to get what I want.”   
  
“We can't have that,” Sideswipe said and his panel slide aside, spike jutting out and popping against Sunstreaker's inner thigh, leaving a smear of lubricant behind.   
  
“No, we can't,” Sunstreaker breathed and sank down onto him with a sigh of happiness, his valve fitting snug and perfect around Sideswipe's spike. “Mmm.”   
  
Sideswipe agreed and his vents puffed out heat as he braced his pedes on the floor, giving himself better leverage to treat his favorite valve right. “You said it,” he murmured and circled his hips, stirring Sunstreaker's sensors.   
  
Sunstreaker tipped forward, planting his hands to either side of Sideswipe's helm as he pressed their forehelms together. “You gonna frag me or not?” he challenged, vocals a resonating purr that vibrated straight to Sideswipe's spark.   
  
Sideswipe shivered. “I'm going to frag you all night,” he promised.   
  
His brother smirked, optics bright and smug. “Good luck with that,” he said.   
  
And Sideswipe took it for the challenge it was. Game. On.

 

***


	93. Buff This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Buff This  
> Universe: Transformers Prime, post-Predacons Rising  
> Characters: Knock OutxSmokescreen  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: implied smut, aftercare, implied BDSM  
> Description: Knock Out always takes care of Smokescreen first.

This was Smokescreen's favorite part.   
  
Oh, the rest of it was slagging awesome. Mind-blowing and delicious and hot.   
  
But this?  
  
This turned the fiery inferno of lust and need into a warm bloom of comfort in the core of his internals. This made his engine purr, his fingers tingle, and his spark sing. It made him want to tackle Knock Out to the berth and return the favor.   
  
Knock Out had the most beautiful and talented hands.   
  
Smokescreen said as much even as he stretched across the berth, as relaxed as though he were neck-deep in an oil bath.   
  
Knock Out chuckled, just audible over the soft whine of the buffer.   
  
“Yes, I know,” he said, never one to be modest. “But I appreciate the compliment all the same.”   
  
Knock Out's paint was scratched and marked blue and white. Every scrape was a reminder of their recent activities and a boost to the heat still simmering in Smokescreen's lines.   
  
But Knock Out still always buffed Smokescreen first. Knock Out refused to call end until Smokescreen shone like a newforge and his plating was perfection.   
  
“It will always feel good,” he'd promised. “And I'll never hurt you beyond what I can fix.”   
  
Smokescreen had accepted that vow and offered his trust in return. A century later and Knock Out had yet to betray him.   
  
It was all the reassurance Smokescreen needed.   
  
He let his doors wriggle, calling attention to them. Knock Out had said to be still but part of Smokescreen's charm was his insubordination.   
  
“Oh. Someone's still in a playful mood.”   
  
Smokescreen tracked Knock Out's movements with his sensors and flexed another door panel. “I do seem to have some extra charge here.”   
  
The buffer cut off with a noisy ker-klunk.   
  
One long finger tickled the bottom of Smokescreen's foot. “Well, we can't have that, can we? Sure you're up for another round?”   
  
Smokescreen revved his engine and popped his panel, baring his connector. A thin snap of charge lit the air with invitation.   
  
“I'm sure,” he purred.   
  
The buffing afterward was his favorite part, Smokescreen reflected.   
  
But this?  
  
Hands and mouth and teeth and tongue and--  
  
Hnnn.   
  
Yeah. This was good, too.

****


	94. Inspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Inspection  
> Universe: G1  
> Characters: Tracks/Sunstreaker  
> Rating: T  
> Warning: dom/sub relationship  
> Description: Patience had been his first lesson.

Patience was part of the training.   
  
Sunstreaker knew that Tracks came off-shift at sunset. He knew that Tracks stopped by the common room for a chat, sometimes lingering to watch a movie or play a game of cards. Especially if he didn't have an early shift or Mirage was around for a chat.   
  
Sunstreaker knew all this, that his chronometer read ten minutes past sunset. But he waited in Tracks' quarters anyway. He waited for Tracks to return, helm bowed and hands crossed at the wrists behind his back. They weren't bound in any way, except for the verbal restrictions placed on his movement.   
  
He had polished himself to an expert shine, one he knew would be thoroughly inspected. And if there was so much as a tiny flaw, he would be punished. Perfection, however, granted him rewards.   
  
Sometimes, one could be as good as the other.   
  
Sunstreaker shivered, his spark yearning. He kept half his attention on his chronometer and did not move. He was not allowed to do so and it didn't matter that Tracks wasn't currently watching.   
  
Sunstreaker had his orders and he would obey.   
  
He waited.   
  
Precisely thirty minutes later, he heard the door unlock and Tracks enter. Sunstreaker did not raise his helm. He waited to be acknowledged.   
  
He sensed Tracks moving around him, felt the weight of his inspection. Sunstreaker's fans clicked on, a loud noise in the silence, one that escaped his control.   
  
Tracks made a contemplative hum but whether it was disappointment or approval, Sunstreaker could not say.   
  
A finger slid across his right shoulder tire. “Your finish is impeccable today,” Tracks commented. “Yet, your self-control is lacking.”   
  
Praise and rebuke all at once. Sunstreaker would have sagged except that it would have ruined his posture and Tracks did not approve.   
  
“Hmm. Perhaps I can overlook the transgression for today.”   
  
Tracks circled to his front and one finger nudged Sunstreaker's helm upward so that their optics could meet. There was a curve to the corner of Tracks' mouth – approval – and his field nudged against Sunstreaker's in silent demand to be allowed access. Sunstreaker obliged, a minute shiver attacking his frame as the force of Tracks' appreciation sizzled over him.   
  
That same finger traced a line down Sunstreaker's chin and intake until it hooked into the thin tungsten band around Sunstreaker's throat. The bare tug, the claim, sent ripples of desire through Sunstreaker's field. He couldn't have held himself back if he tried.   
  
“When's your next shift?” Tracks asked.   
  
“Sunrise.”   
  
Tracks' grin became a smirk, his field pushing harder against Sunstreaker's, as though trying to seep into the nooks and crannies of his frame.   
  
“That's unfortunate,” Tracks purred and he stepped closer, their frames inches apart, his finger still curled around Sunstreaker's collar. “Because it seems you are going to be late for it.”   
  
Sunstreaker's engine revved. Tracks must have spent his entire shift devising the plans for their rendezvous.   
  
“I'll be sent to the brig,” Sunstreaker said. Not an argument, merely a statement of fact.   
  
Tracks' finger nudged against his intake, a teasing tickle. “I'm aware of that,” he said, and his other hand traced Sunstreaker's grill. “Because I have guard shift tomorrow.”   
  
Oh.   
  
So it was to be one of those sessions then.   
  
Sunstreaker's optics burned bright.   
  
Tracks was going to make the brig-time worth it.  
  
Then again, Sunstreaker couldn't think of a time Tracks disappointed him.

****


	95. Lazy Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Lazy Days  
> Universe: IDW Robots in Disguise, post-Dark Cybertron  
> Characters: Swindle, Blurr  
> Warnings: non-sexual petplay  
> Rating: T  
> Description: Blurr was as indecently sprawled over Swindle's lap as any mech could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another ficlet for the Valentines BDSM series, prompted by an Anon on tumblr.

There were a lot of things that Swindle did for credits (and sometimes influence). Some of the things he enjoyed. Some were tolerable. Some were endured. But so long as it brought in the creds, he could generally grin and bear it. Everything had a price after all.   
  
And then there were the things he would have never thought about if it hadn't been for the credits. Things that made him want to give it a try on his own.   
  
He pitched the idea to the only mech he thought would give it the due attention the proposal deserved.   
  
Blurr had been hesitant at first but warmed up to the idea over several sessions and now actively sought Swindle out for some playtime.   
  
It was a ship of relaxation in a sea of backstabbing, cutthroat, sly and manipulative practices. Not that Swindle despised said practices. No, he luxuriated in them. There was nothing quite like going into a bargaining session and emerging victorious.   
  
But this was good, too. This was for fun. And he didn't have to pay a cred for it.   
  
Blurr draped over his lap, racing engine a light purr that sent a calming rhythm through Swindle's spark. Swindle's hand rested on the racer's back, stroking him from the tip of his helm, down the length of his dorsal plating and back again. Over and over.   
  
The rhythmic motion of his hand, the glide of metal over metal, was as soothing to Swindle as it was to Blurr. And the racer must have been in a light recharge because his vents were wheezing. It was actually pretty cute.  
  
Swindle had a datapad in one hand and while he could have spent the time doing some calculations or plotting his next economic conquest, instead he was reading a datatrack. A terribly written detective novel but in this current age of rebuilding, one couldn't be picky.   
  
Blurr stirred, fidgeting. One arm dangled over the side of the couch and idly started pawing at Swindle's leg, fingers scraping against his plating. He'd just gotten polished, too.   
  
Swindle made a warning noise in his chassis. "Stop that."  
  
One blue optic unshuttered at him, watching him. Testing him.  
  
The fingers kneaded at his armor again, threatening to leave scratches.   
  
Swindle narrowed his optics and flicked a finger over Blurr's audial. "I said stop," he repeated, more firmly this time.   
  
Blurr huffed a great (wheezing, he should really have that looked at) ventilation and flopped onto his side, limbs stretching in all directions before he settled again, back on his belly. He was as indecently sprawled over Swindle's lap as any mech could be.   
More amused than he let on, Swindle let his hand rest on Blurr's back. Plating twitched beneath his palm but the distinct vibrations of purring had come back into play. Swindle renewed the stroking and smiled when Blurr's helm tilted into his hand.   
  
It was to be a lazy day then. Well, nothing wrong with that.   
  
So Blurr dozed and Swindle read and the vidscreen mumbled the daily news in the background and it was good. Eventually they'd have to get up. Swindle would need to stretch and Blurr's need to be in motion would arise, but for now, yes. This was good.

****


	96. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Trust  
> Universe: IDW, MTMTE, before Overlord Arc  
> Characters: DriftxRatchet  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: discussions of BDSM  
> Description: Ratchet makes an offer and wonders why he hadn't done it sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Valentine's BDSM ficlet.

Trust, Ratchet realized, was one of the greatest and most difficult gifts.   
  
He watched Drift fidget as he looked around Ratchet's cluttered habsuite, radiating unease. He stared at the collection of trinkets that had survived the war, stowed safely in a subspace pocket. His fingers twitched as though he wanted to touch them, but feared breaking them. He was so desperate to please that the fear of screwing up had overtaken all else.   
  
Drift was beyond the consolation of words. Actions he understood better. Words were often little consolation in the gutters. Ratchet knew this all too well.   
  
There was so much more he should have done back then. But it was pointless to linger on the past, not when the future stretched out before them.   
  
Ratchet strode across the floor and reached for Drift's hand. It was given to him without question.   
  
“Here,” Ratchet said as he turned Drift's hand upward.   
  
Ratchet placed a pair of cuffs on the bare palm. They were a standard construction, not stasis, but physical restraint. They could be easily broken if need be. They were perfect for beginners and were more for Drift's sake than Ratchet's own.   
  
Ratchet could handle stasis cuffs. He'd been bound with a lot worse. But right now, he wanted Drift to be comfortable with this. To understand what gift Ratchet was giving him.   
  
Drift blinked. “Um.”   
  
“Use them on me,” Ratchet said, his systems already cycling hotter in anticipation. It had been vorns since he'd last indulged in such play. Not since...  
  
Well, the less thought of that, of him, the better.   
  
Drift's weight shifted. “Ratchet, I don't think--”  
  
“--you can.” Ratchet closed Drift's fingers around the cuffs and kept his hand over Drift's. “Because there are rules. You won't hurt me. At least, no more than I ask you to.”   
  
Drift's field was a confusing tangle of intrigue and dread. He stared at their hands and the cuffs as though he held a dangerous weapon.   
  
“I don't know if I can.” His plating ruffled, betraying his unease. It had nothing to do with shyness, Ratchet knew.   
  
It was a matter of self-control.   
  
“You don't have to if you don't want to. I can get along fine without it.” Ratchet lent his field, offering support and affection. “You don't have to do it for my sake either. But if you're interested, I'm offering.”   
  
Drift's optics snapped to him in surprise, as though having the choice was foreign to him. His mouth opened and closed. His engine purred.   
  
“I...” He licked his lips, working his intake. “What do I do?”   
  
Ratchet pressed closer, the edges of their armor coming into contact. “I'll teach you.”   
  
“Because there are rules.” Drift's vocalizer crackled with static.   
  
“Yes.” Ratchet pulled his hand back, leaving Drift in possession of the cuffs. “For example, I enjoy minor levels of pain but nothing that would leave permanent damage or require extensive repair. I like being bound, but I don't like for my senses to be restricted. I want to be able to see and hear what you are doing.” Vastly simplified but it would be enough for Drift to get a basic understanding.   
  
Drift nodded slowly. “I don't think I should hurt you. Even if you wanted me to.” Something rippled in his field, too fast for Ratchet to read, but he had a good guess of what it had been.   
  
“Then I won't ask for it,” Ratchet said and was doubly glad to see the relief in Drift's field. “That's how it works. A 'no' is always a 'no'. A 'yes' can become a 'no' and negotiations can be made before and after but never during.”   
  
Now that Ratchet had broached the topic, he wondered why he hadn't mentioned it sooner. There was something about the conversation, the discussion, that would put Drift more at ease than murmured reassurances. Which was fine with Ratchet. As far as he was concerned, clearly given consent was never a bad thing.   
  
And for Drift, it was probably better than relying on implications.   
  
“Then I want to try.” Drift tightened his fingers around the cuffs and met Ratchet's gaze. “I want you to teach me.”   
  
Ratchet grinned. He should have brought this up a lot sooner.   
  
“Then come and sit. I'll get the energon and we can discuss the details. All right?”   
  
Drift smiled as well, his field flickering with relief around the edges. “Sounds good.”   
  
His so-called aura was probably just as bright, Ratchet thought to himself.

****


	97. Break Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: JazzxRatchet  
> Universe:Transformers:Prime, pre-series  
> Warnings: implied sticky   
> Description: Jazz is all that Ratchet needs.

Ratchet grumbled as he poked at the crushed device with a microwelder. Was there even any point in fixing this? Could he fix this?   
  
He heard the door to his tiny medbay open. “I'm busy,” Ratchet snapped, not bothering to check who it was. It could be Optimus and he wouldn't give a frag. “Go away.”   
  
“Oh, dear. Dare I ask?”   
  
Ratchet put the device down, giving it a poke. It half-rolled, a few loose components flaking off with chiming noises. A screw leapt across the table, onto the floor, and rolled under a nearby cabinet.   
  
“I am surrounded by morons,” Ratchet said, recognizing the voice as the one mech he didn't want to toss out on his aft. “Clumsy, useless, morons.”   
  
Jazz chuckled as he swung into view and hopped up onto the counter next to the crushed device, four large furrows evidence of the massive hand that had been the cause of the damage.   
  
“Who was it this time?”   
  
“Bulkhead,” Ratchet growled. “It's always Bulkhead. He should have stayed with the Wreckers. Where he belongs. It's what he's good at.”   
  
“Wrecking stuff?” Jazz asked with a cheeky grin.   
  
Ratchet rolled his optics and set down his welder. No. There was no point in saving this. Into the scrap pile it would go.   
  
“You think you're so clever,” he grumbled, moving to brush past the data mech turned saboteur.   
  
“I'm also cute.” Jazz snagged him as he passed, legs curling around Ratchet's hips and dragging him close. “Don't you agree, Doc?”   
  
Ratchet sighed through his vents and turned into Jazz's embrace, recognizing the soft pulse of affection for what it was. “What do you want, Jazz?”   
  
Hands draped over his shoulders, Jazz tipped their helms together. “Is a bit of attention from my favorite medic a bit too much to ask?”   
  
“Favorite? Who else are you letting poke at your systems, specialized as they are?”   
  
“Ooo. Is that jealousy, I hear?” Jazz's legs tightened, drawing him close enough that he could feel the heat at the apex of Jazz's thighs.   
  
So. He'd come in here hot and revved to go. Ratchet shouldn't be so surprised. It was often the case with Jazz. He'd pop in and pop out and sometimes, it would be orns before Ratchet heard from him again. Jazz did not ascribe to anything like a schedule.   
  
Ratchet rested his hands on Jazz's hips, giving them a thoughtful squeeze. “It's pointless to be jealous when it comes to you.”   
  
“Aw, but Ratch, you know you're the only one for me.” Jazz purred, tipping Ratchet's helm up with a nudge, only to steal a kiss.   
  
One Ratchet gave with equal fervor. He had not yet learned how to say no to Jazz and frankly, he didn't want to. The snarky saboteur was a much needed gift in the middle of all this war nonsense.   
  
Jazz wriggled against him, interface panel scraping enticingly against Ratchet's own, and what was left of his anger melted away. Who cared about the device? He had an armful of eager mech right now and no patients on the docket.   
  
“All right,” Ratchet said, breaking off the kiss. “You've made your point. My time is yours until some idiot comes in here carrying his own leg.”   
  
Jazz laughed, one hand tickling at the edge of Ratchet's helm, teasing the sensitive cables beneath. “I have the feeling someone's already done that.”   
  
“Long story.”   
  
A very, very long story that Ratchet didn't care to repeat because the story wasn't important. Jazz was. He wasn't going to waste this opportunity.   
  
“You'll have to tell me later.” Jazz's right pede scraped down the back of Ratchet's left leg, a teasing burr of metal on metal that spiked heat through Ratchet's lines. “Maybe during round three.”   
  
“Optimistic, aren't you?”   
  
“I've been known to be inspirational.” Jazz rocked his hips again, his visor deepening to a needy blue. “Course there are better ways to shut me up, if you know what I mean.”   
  
Ratchet rolled his optics but he knew how to take a hint. He kissed Jazz again, delighting in the little moan the kiss produced. Jazz's squirming increased in urgency.   
  
Ratchet, after all, deserved a break.


	98. Friends with (Very Good) Benefits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jazz/Sideswipe  
> Universe: Transformers: G1  
> Warnings: sticky, refs twincest, casual sex   
> Description: Sideswipe is insatiable. It's all Sunstreaker's fault. Jazz doesn't mind. He's going to recharge well tonight.

Jazz flattened himself on the berth, vents spinning madly as he panted. He lay, arms and legs asprawl, not caring that his components were exposed, slick valve twitching and spike half-pressurized. His cooling fans whirred at max, vibrating the berth.   
  
And Sideswipe laughed as he crawled over Jazz on hands and knees, his optics burning bright with enthusiasm.   
  
“Done already?” he asked, leaning down to drag his glossa up the length of Jazz's chestplate, teasing the seam.   
  
His armor jittered but didn't part. “Of course I'm not!” Jazz retorted, planting a grin on his face. “I could go all night!” Just as soon as he could move.   
  
Well, maybe sooner. Jazz was pretty sure he was laying in a wet spot. Then again, at this point, the whole berth was a wet spot.   
  
“But, you know, that's just not practical,” Jazz said, even as Sideswipe's talented mouth found a headlight and licked at the glass, teasing around the rim of it. Jazz swallowed down a moan. “Because Sunny'll be back soon and you know how he gets.”   
  
Sideswipe chuckled. “Yeah, I know.” His denta scraped over the curve of Jazz's headlight and Jazz's engine weakly revved. His spike twitched. “But he's busy. Not comin' back tonight. Found him another berth. I'm all yours.”   
  
Jazz looked down, watching Sideswipe's mouth work wonders, tracking the bob and sway of the red mech's erect spike. He swore that thing never depressurized. Sideswipe had, what, four overloads already? He was insatiable! How Sunstreaker put up with it, Jazz didn't know.   
  
Maybe that was the real cause of Sunstreaker's foul temper. He was constantly sore. Despite himself, Jazz giggled.   
  
Yes, he giggled.   
  
Sideswipe paused in his ministrations and peered down at Jazz. “What's so funny?”   
  
Jazz forced his frame into motion, arching his backstrut in a manner he knew Sideswipe found alluring. More lubricant and transfluid dripped from his valve, worsening the wet spot. Oh, well. They could always recharge on the floor.   
  
“Sunstreaker,” Jazz said.   
  
Sideswipe blinked. “I don't follow. Sunny is many things, but a comedic genius, he is not.”   
  
“Yeah, I know.” Jazz gave Sideswipe a wicked grin. “He didn't find another berth because you chased him out of yours, did he?”   
  
Sideswipe tossed him a shrewd look and then snorted. He bent back to the task at hand, or well, mouth. “You got that backwards,” he said, words muffled as his lips traveled back down, grazing over Jazz's ventrum before wisping over his interface panel.   
  
Jazz bucked his hips upward, spreading his thighs further. Just when he thought he didn't possibly have the energy within him, there Sideswipe went, tucking his arms under Jazz's thighs, tilting his hips up, and diving right in.   
  
Jazz moaned, that slippery glossa lapping at his components, slurping up the mess between his legs. Sideswipe ate him like he was the finest grade of energon and all Jazz could do was whimper, reaching up to grab the berth pillow and hold on tight. His anterior node throbbed at the nibble of denta. His spike rose back to attention, though there was little transfluid left to weep.   
  
“B-backward?” Jazz repeated, struggling to hold his focus.   
  
“Yeah.” Sideswipe slurped at the tip of his spike and then dropped Jazz's legs, crawling back upright to straddle Jazz's array. “He wears me out. S'why I kicked him toward Tracks.”   
  
Well, that could either go very well or very badly. Jazz made a mental note to call Ironhide, maybe have him on the lookout, but then Sideswipe reached between his legs, grabbed Jazz's spike, aimed it toward his valve, and sunk down in one easy push. Sideswipe moaned, his valve squeezing down on Jazz's spike and Jazz gasped, bucking up into the red twin.   
  
“Primus, that feels good,” he moaned, bracing his hands on Jazz's ventrum. He ground down, circling his hips and all Jazz could do was curl toward him, grab his hips, and hold on for the ride.   
  
It boggled him. Left him speechless. Sideswipe could go all night and he'd had to send Sunstreaker out for relief? How was that even possible?  
  
“Wow,” Jazz said.   
  
“I know.” Sideswipe flashed him a grin and grabbed his own spike, dragging a long pull down it. “So now there's nothing stopping us.”   
  
Jazz moaned, tilting his helm back. He honestly didn't know if it was from excitement or not. Maybe both because being interfaced to exhaustion was hardly a bad thing. Sideswipe could do things that left him quaking in pleasure. And there was one more benefit. Jazz was going to recharge like a rock.   
  
He squeezed Sideswipe's hips, braced his pedes on the berth, and thrust upward. “Bring it,” Jazz said.   
  
Sideswipe smirked.

 

***


	99. You and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: RatchetxWheeljack  
> Universe: G1  
> Warnings: fluff, cuteness, mentions of sex toys   
> Description: Winding down after a difficult day. They have a routine.

They always start in the washracks because Wheeljack can be relied on to have all manner of chemicals spattered on his frame and Ratchet is just as bad. Oh, they are both careful as it is, but accidents happen and it never hurts to indulge in a good rinse.   
  
And then it's back to their shared quarters for a mutual polishing and repainting session. Which is always an adventure because Ratchet is ticklish and Wheeljack can't sit still and they often have to start over as a result. And sometimes the polishing leads to other activities and they never make it to the rest of the routine.   
  
If fatigue, however, proves stronger than temptation, they curl up together on the berth, sharing a box of energon goodies as they watch an Earth movie. The rule is that they can’t feed themselves, only each other, and this, too, sometimes leads to more energizing activities.   
  
They take turns picking the movie because Wheeljack likes cheesy romances, especially Disney ones so he can sing along. Ratchet prefers Westerns and John Wayne, but they both agree that Science Fiction is worth mocking and a good laugh until it sends them both into recharge.   
  
After dinner and a movie, if there is still energy to spare, comes game time, usually on a weekly basis. It's a fun challenge and the goal is to see who can come up with the kinkiest, most ridiculous and yet effective interfacing toy.   
  
Wheeljack, much to Ratchet's consternation, wins four times out of five. Their neighbors aren't happy about it either. Ratchet can be loud given enough incentive and Wheeljack can be quite inspiring.   
  
Of course, Ratchet discreetly gifts said neighbors with some previous week's winners and the complaining usually stops. Ratchet suspects it's a force of habit now and the loudest among them – Prowl – is just angling for free toys.   
  
He can be sneaky like that.   
  
Ratchet isn't very upset with Wheeljacks' repeated victories. Every win is an opportunity to make use of said toy and Ratchet is an enthusiastic test subject. If they are lucky and share the next off-shift, Wheeljack drags out their box of fun from beneath the berth.   
  
Ratchet, in those times, sends out a mass 'do not disturb' comm and woe be unto the Autobot who doesn't heed that warning.   
  
The Decepticons had certainly learned their lesson. Ratchet's nickname, after all, had not been given to him by fellow Autobots.   
  
But when it's all said and done, their night always ends the same: snuggled together on the berth. Wheeljack likes to lie on top of Ratchet, his helm pillowed on Ratchet's windshield as their legs tangle together. Wheeljack likes to listen to the steady pulse of Ratchet's spark beat. Ratchet likes to lightly stroke Wheeljack's winglets, lulling his partner into recharge.   
  
And, as always, the best part of every night is when they get to wake up together the next morning.

 


	100. Ticking Bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Skyfire, Megatron  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: character death, dark fic   
> Description: There was no escape, nowhere Skyfire could go away from this madness. And so he made a choice.

How long had they been fighting?   
  
Centuries by his mark. Millennia truthfully, though he wasn't sure if he should count the four million year sleep.   
  
Either way, it was far too long. Skyfire was done with it. Tired of it. He'd sat back and he'd listened to them bicker. He'd watched Optimus, trapped in his morality. He'd observed Megatron, trapped in his insanity.   
  
He'd heard Prowl and Jazz as they reacted, instead of being proactive. As they listened to their leader without realizing the long-term implications. He cringed as Starscream seemed only capable of prolonging things, of driving Megatron further into madness.   
  
It wasn't ever going to end.   
  
There was no escape, nowhere Skyfire could go away from this madness. Worse that he found himself caught up in it, that there was truly no option but us or them. That he'd chosen the Autobots as the lesser of two evils, but both factions were equally to blame.   
  
He couldn't return to Cybertron. He couldn't stay here on Earth like this.   
  
He couldn't do any of it anymore.   
  
Skyfire made a choice. And he'd reached the point where he no longer cared about the consequences.   
  
Opportunity came two days later, almost like clockwork. The Decepticons were starved for energy. They attacked the nearest, best purveyor of said energy. The humans squawked for help. The Autobots responded.   
  
Skyfire was dispatched to carry the first wave of defense forces.   
  
He dropped his cargo and circled the battlefield. Prowl pinged him to return, to pick up the next wave, even as the Aerialbots came screaming in, combining mid-drop to face Menasor as Superion.   
  
Skyfire ignored the pings. And then he shut down the line. He was only interested in one thing.   
  
He scanned the battlefield. Megatron, of course, was leading the charge. Starscream was harrying the ground forces, the rest of his wing next to him. Soundwave hovered at Megatron's side, ever obedient.   
  
Optimus was en route. Megatron, no doubt, waited for him. He let his subordinates do the hard work while he issued challenge after challenge.   
  
“Face me, Prime!” he bellowed. “Before I kill more of your precious humans.”   
  
Skyfire was done.   
  
He considered, he calculated, and he dove.   
  
He transformed mid-air and swept Megatron from the ground before anyone could react. He tossed the warlord to the ground a fair distance away from the battle, aware that he was on a timer.   
  
He landed over Megatron, one pede pinning him in place. Skyfire was larger, much larger, and there was a crunch as his other pede slammed Megatron's cannon-laden arm to the rocky dirt.   
  
Megatron, of all things, laughed. “You?” he asked, optics burning with humor. “What do you think you're doing?”   
  
“Ending the war.” Skyfire drew his own weapon – space exploration was dangerous. He'd always been armed. He just never thought he'd be pointing it at his own species.   
  
Megatron's vents hiccuped from his laughter. “You don't have what it takes to pull the trigger,” he taunted, half-daring Skyfire to do so. “You're an Autobot.”   
  
“That's what everyone keeps forgetting,” Skyfire said as he pointed it at Megatron, and ruthlessly shoved down any and all coding that screamed at him. He had to do this. “I'm not really either of you.”   
  
Hesitation was the Autobots' downfall.   
  
Pride was the weakness of the Decepticons.   
  
Skyfire had neither.   
  
He pulled the trigger. Twice. One to the spark, one to the helm. A Cybertronian could sometimes survive either. Megatron could not survive both.   
  
Smoke rose up from Megatron's chassis. Skyfire waited for the crushing guilt and self-recrimination. He waited to feel sick, for his tanks to lurch, and for him to stare in horror at what he'd done.   
  
It never came. This was necessary.   
  
Skyfire stepped back and turned, surveying the battlefield. No one noticed yet. But they would soon enough.   
  
Now, he only had to find Optimus Prime.

 

-End-


	101. Of Hidden Talents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: RatchetxWheeljack  
> Rating: K+  
> Warning: Fluff, Cuteness, sorta humor  
> Description: Ratchet hears a noise and goes to investigate.

What in Unicron's rusted undergarments was that noise?

Ratchet frowned, set aside his datapad, and rose from the berth. It sounded like someone was mating a trash compactor with a salvage grinder. It was offensive to the audials. 

It was coming from elsewhere in the apartment. 

Ratchet's frown deepened. He stalked out of the berthroom, determined to hunt down the poor machine and kill it. He had surgery tomorrow, frag it. 

The caterwauling got louder. It was coming from his partner's workshop. 

Was Wheeljack under attack?

It wouldn't be the first time thieves had broken in, searching for valuables amid the laboratory equipment. 

Ratchet's optics cycled down. He groped for a weapon and snatched that hideous sculpture Ironhide gave them last decaorn. It was a gag gift, right? And it was steel, heavy, and sharp. It would do. 

Ratchet braced himself and slammed the door panel, leaping into Wheeljack's lab with a loud yell. He brandished his sculpture. 

“Drop it!” Ratchet growled. 

The noise vanished with a tiny squeak. Wheeljack stared back at him, indicators a pale pink. His optics were wide. His hands froze mid-motion. 

“Uh. Drop what?” 

Ratchet peered around suspiciously. “No thieves?” 

“Um... no.” Wheeljack eyed the sculpture. “Didn't Ironhide give us that?” 

“I needed a weapon.” 

“For the thieves?” 

Ratchet slumped at his partner's incredulous tone and lowered his makeshift weapon. Be concerned for your partner's welfare and see what it got you? Harrumph. 

“I heard a noise,” Ratchet said and set the sculpture down on the nearest spot of clean table. He had to take several steps to get there. Wheeljack wasn't a big believer in organization. 

Mess, he claimed, was his biggest inspiration. 

“Noise?” 

“You didn't hear it? A sort of... dying noise?” 

Wheeljack's indicators darkened in hue. His hands fiddled harder with whatever he was working on. “Oh... that.” His winglets fluttered. “Yeah, the Reflexians are an acquired taste.” 

Ratchet blinked. “What?” 

“Music,” Wheeljack clarified. “I was, um, singing.” He shuffled his pedes. “The song was from Reflexa.” 

“Well, that's... different.” Ratchet inched closer to his partner, reading the embarrassment in Wheeljack's field. 

It was adorable. 

“Sorry, I woke you,” Wheeljack said and he stared so hard at the item in his hands Ratchet thought it might spontaneously combust. His winglets fluttered again. 

“Wasn't recharging yet.” There was a stack of datatracks nearby. Ratchet picked up the top one, reading the title. He recognized the artist, one made popular by their romantic ballads. 

In fact... Ratchet skimmed the other titles. All of these here were romantic ballads, a good portion from Cybertron, but others from other planets. Some of the languages he recognized, others he didn't. But it was a fair bet that they were ballads, too. 

Wheeljack liked romantic ballads. More than that, he liked singing along with them. That was... well, it was adorable, that's what it was. 

Ratchet cocked his helm and looked at his partner, who was pretending full interest in his project and trying to hide the embarrassed flutter in his field. 

“You're cute,” Ratchet said, and he leaned over, pressing a kiss to Wheeljack's helm, just above his audial. He made it a point to direct a puff of heated air down into Wheeljack's collar fairing. “And if you're inclined to put that down, you can join me in the berth. I'll show you just how much.” 

Wheeljack shivered. His project clattered to the top of the desk. He turned his helm and nuzzled against Ratchet's. 

“Thank you for not laughing,” he said, indicators flashing a gentle pale ocher. 

Ratchet allowed affection to seep into his field. “Never,” he said, and took Wheeljack's hand, squeezing it. “But for the sake of my poor audials, do warn me the next time you get the urge.” 

Wheeljack laughed. “I'll try.” 

“Or at least save it for a time when I'm not about to recharge,” Ratchet added. 

“Deal.” 

***


	102. Not So Innocent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee, Bluestreak   
> Universe: Transformers G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Talk of sex toys   
> Description: Bluestreak had seen that long before. Bee didn't like being treated as glass either.

Tucked into a corner in the shadows, Bluestreak saw everything. This was his favorite place to hide when he wasn't up to talking and being friendly and his normal chatty self. Mechs had come to learn to leave him alone when he was here, unwilling to be alone, but unwilling to socialize. In fact, they'd learned to ignore him.   
  
Which was why nobody noticed him noticing poor Bumblebee.   
  
It was Sideswipe this time, the red frontliner heedless to Bumblebee's subtle requests and then blunt interest. Sideswipe laughed it off as though quite certain the minibot wasn't serious. He claimed that he didn't dare have Prowl drag him in for questioning and corrupting the innocent, before he went away, laughing with his twin and Smokescreen. .   
  
Bluestreak's frown deepened. Sideswipe, for all his friendliness, could be an aft sometimes. It was why Blue had never made his way back to Sides' berth. One time of being treated like glass was one too many.   
  
Left behind, Bumblebee stared at his energon, his expression giving nothing away to the casual observer, but Bluestreak recognized it all too well. Frustration. Annoyance. Anger. A touch of self-loathing to round it out. Bluestreak had been there before. Was still there, more often than not, truth be told. It was why he was both single and lacking in casual partners.   
  
No one wanted to corrupt the smiling and innocent last survivor of Praxus.   
  
Pitslag.   
  
Bluestreak finished off his energon, let the cube dissipate, and rose to his pedes. He approached Bee's table and leaned over, bracing his elbows on the table top as he looked at Bumblebee's face. The angle of his frame and his doorwings gave them a semblance of privacy.   
  
“You look bored,” Bluestreak said with a grin. “And I've got some free time and a roommate on long patrol. Want to come back to my room?”   
  
Bee offered him a smile, but it didn't reach his optics. “Thanks, Blue. But I think I'm just going to recharge early or something. Don't really have the spark for games tonight.”   
  
Bluestreak tilted his helm, lowering his vocals. “I'm thinking of a different kind of game, Bee. One that Sideswipe already declined.”  
  
Bee blinked at him and then his optics widened. He leaned back in his chair, giving Bluestreak a long, second look. Finally, he nodded.   
  
“Okay,” he said, getting up from the table. “Let's go.”   
  
Bluestreak grinned, planting his chirpy and fake smile back on his lips. “Great!” he said as Bee fell into step beside him. “I really think you're going to like this one. It's fun! It's not like the racing games either. I mean, I know we're cars, but we don't always have to like racing games.”   
  
Bumblebee chuckled. “If it was up to Smokescreen, we'd all like card games.”   
  
“That's because he wants to win all the time,” Bluestreak replied, keeping up the cover. Anyone they passed offered greetings but no one looked surprised.   
  
Why would they? It was just Bluestreak and Bumblebee, the two most innocent mechs in the Ark, on their way to do something pure and gentle like take a nap or play Go Fish or giggle over their favorite character.   
  
Ugh. Bluestreak almost purged just thinking about it.   
  
They kept up the idle chatter until Bluestreak keyed open the door to the room he shared with Hound and gestured Bumblebee inside. Once the door was shut and they had privacy, Bluestreak dropped the act.   
  
“You're not the only one,” he said, something like a sigh hissing from his vents. “They treat me like that, too. Dismissing me because of a perceived youth or innocence I don't have.”   
  
Bumblebee turned in a slow circle around the room before facing Bluestreak and planting his hands on his hips. “So you did notice.”   
  
“Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt as Sparkplug would say.” Bluestreak snorted and went to his berth. He knelt on the floor, digging around beneath it for the box he knew he kept stashed in the back.   
  
“In my case, they can't see past the act,” Bumblebee said, and the edge of frustration in his vocals was oh-so-familiar. “They forget that I'm Spec Ops, that I'm doing what I'm trained to do, and that it's all a ruse for interacting with humans. Oh, and not to mention the fact that I'm older than half the crew on the Ark.”   
  
“I'm still young,” Bluestreak admitted reluctantly and all but crowed when his fingers found the edge of the box. He dragged it out, shoving aside extra blaster cartridges as he did so. “But I'm at least older than fragging Sideswipe.”   
  
The box emerged into the light, covered in a thin layer of gritty dust, with his ownership glyph stamped on the lid. Bluestreak gave it a loving pat before pulling himself to his pedes and hauling the box onto a nearby chair.   
  
“What is it?” Bumblebee asked.   
  
“My collection,” Bluestreak answered and he flicked the catches and flipped open the lid, beaming with pride.   
  
There, lined across a padded, velvet cushion, were his toys. False spikes. Vibrators. Nub clamps. Spike rings. Two types of whips. Three types of flogs. Inhibitors. Gags. Stasis grade handcuffs. And this was only his portable set.   
  
“I'm impressed, Blue. This is better than mine.” Bumblebee picked up one of the floggers, giving it a testing swish.   
  
“I prefer high-quality stuff.” Bluestreak reached down and selected the double-ended false spike, holding it up to make a point. “How about it? You and me, this toy, that berth, getting rid of more than a little frustration together?”  
  
Bumblebee made a thoughtful noise in his intake before he dropped the flogger and grabbed one of the vibrators instead. “Only if we can use this too.” His optics flashed with lust.   
  
Bluestreak's grin was just shy of wicked as he purred, “Anything you want.”

***


	103. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet wasn't a fan of rain. Jazz helped change his mind.

Ratchet was on the verge of a grump. He glared out the Ark bay doors and into a gloomy, wet afternoon, cursing the rain. So much for an accurate forecast. The rain was supposed to have cleared up hours ago, with plenty of time for what he and Jazz had planned.  
  
And yet here it was, still raining. Still windy. The clouds were thick and gray above him without so much as break in sight.  
  
Ratchet frowned, crossing his arms under his bumper as he leaned against the frame, waiting for Jazz to arrive. This was a disappointment. He might as well have not bothered skipping out early from his shift. Their plans were ruined. They couldn’t go out in this.  
  
The sound of a whistle made him turn to see Jazz striding up to the entrance, a bebop to his step that gave no hint to the disappointment he must be feeling.  
  
“Wow. It’s comin’ down,” he said, pretend-shielding his visor to stare out at what could only be described as a deluge. “Ready for a bath, my mech?”  
  
Ratchet cycled his optics. “Beg pardon? Surely you don’t intend to actually go out in that?”  
  
“Why not? A little bit of rain never hurt anyone.” Jazz grinned, his hand sliding along Ratchet’s arm to link their hands together. Their fields sizzled with contact, reflecting the fact that they’d had so little time to spend together as of late.  
  
Ratchet took a step backward, shaking his helm. “Take one look into my medbay and then tell me that again,” he retorted and it was nearly a snarl.  
  
The only thing worse than injuries caused by Decepticons and rampant stupidity, were injuries caused by genuine accidents. And right now, Ratchet had three such patients taking up space in berths, recovering from a collision at high speeds thanks to an unfamiliarity with Earth weather patterns and something the humans called hydroplaning. If they had been constructed of anything other than Cybertronian metals, Tracks and Mirage would not have survived. Sunstreaker was still iffy and Sideswipe was beside himself.  
  
So no. Ratchet did not consider Earth’s rain harmless, for all that it was not acidic.  
  
“Ratch, those were accidents,” Jazz said, squeezing Ratchet’s hand. The other touched Ratchet’s windshield gently. “And we’re not gonna be drivin’ recklessly. We don’t even have to drive at all. We can just walk.”   
  
Ratchet still balked. He glared past Jazz at the rain as though the natural cycle of Earth’s water system was a worse threat than the Decepticons.  
  
“Jazz…”  
  
“Come on, I’ll show ya,” Jazz said, and he tugged, pulling Ratchet toward the exit.  
  
He tried to dig in his heels, for what little good it did him. Jazz was surprisingly strong for being smaller. His grip was firm, his grin enticing, his field sliding along Ratchet’s in a promise for more.  
  
“It’ll be fun,” Jazz added as he yanked Ratchet into the heavy rain and then left him there to do a little walking dance in the mud. Rain pattered down on Ratchet’s frame, cool as it slithered down against his internal components.  
  
Ratchet’s hands formed fists. “I’m not helping you clean that out!” he snarled and whirled on a heelstrut, intent to heading right back into the Ark.  
  
Jazz intercepted him, field warm as it pressed against Ratchet’s, leaving a faint tingle behind. “You need to open yourself to the possibilities, my mech,” he said, spreading his arms out. His plating lifted and flexed, opening up to the streams of water. “Learn to let it flow.” He tipped his helm back, rain pattering against his visor and faceplate, some of it evaporating on contact.  
  
Ratchet sighed and had to admit, the fragger did look pretty damned attractive like this. Even if Ratchet couldn’t shake the unease. He didn’t want to go driving in this, frag you very much. But he did want to spend time with Jazz.  
  
He crossed his arms and looked away. “I don’t want to go driving, Jazz.”  
  
“Don’t gotta.” He felt hands on his arms, Jazz’s field pulsing reassurance at him. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk. You ‘n me. Like we planned.”  
  
“No driving,” Ratchet insisted.  
  
“Cross my spark.” Jazz rose up on the tip of his pedes to press a kiss to Ratchet’s windshield above his crossed his arms.  
  
He had the most pleading expression on his face, one that put both Bluestreak and Sideswipe to shame. There was something, too, in his look that suggested staying cooped up in the Ark was the last thing Jazz wanted or needed right now.  
  
Ratchet relented. Agitation still crowded at the edge of his processor, but he’d never been able to deny Jazz anything. Beside, the cool rain did feel good against his internals.  
  
“Fine,” he said. “But you’ll be scrubbing the mud from my joints later.”  
  
“It’s a deal,” Jazz purred and stole a kiss.  
  
Ratchet didn’t mind that at all.


	104. Rise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly framed Optimus Prime learns the true weight of the title he's been given.

One of the hardest parts was getting used to the weight of the weapons now attached to his frame. The weight was both literal and figurative. They were heavy, awkward, and Optimus had none of the frame-comfort that actual war-builds and soldiers had. He was also aware of the burden the weapons brought with the them.  
  
The ability to take a life was not one Optimus had ever desired. Now it was necessary. Now in order to save a life, he had to take them. He did not like this change. He did not like nor want this burden.  
  
But he quickly learned that he could not merely set his new weapons aside, hold his hands to the air, and sue for peace. Megatron was not content with mere peace. He wanted the utter annihilation of anyone or thing that stood in his way.  
  
Training helped. Ironhide was a relentless taskmaster who ensured that not only did Optimus understand each and every weapon now attached to his frame, but that he was skilled in using them. That he could call them with barely a thought and use them to their full potential.  
  
He had other instructors as well. Prowl, who was to be his tactician, schooled him in analyzing an opponent for weakness. He knew all of the better defensive arts and while Optimus was larger than most of the Autobots, he was on par with the Decepticons. All of the moves would come in handy.  
  
Jazz was his offensive instructor. Optimus had been hesitant at first because Jazz was so small he wondered what the mech could teach him. But after the third time of Jazz effortlessly knocking him on his aft, Optimus had conceded and diligently studied each lesson. He would never become a master. Jazz would continue to defeat him every time. But it was enough. It would keep him alive.  
  
Optimus would never forget the terror he felt the first time he faced the Decepticon army and the first time he stood between Megatron and his goals. Later, Ironhide would tell him that it was the mark of a hero to stand up and fight despite his fear, but Optimus would remain disappointed in himself. Megatron was a fearsome opponent that no amount of training could have prepared him for.  
  
His knees had shook. His spark had wavered. His fingers trembled around the haft of his energy axe. The Decepticons were better armed, better trained, and though they didn’t outnumber the Autobots, they outclassed the Autobots. Optimus felt, in that moment, not only fear for his own spark, but also for the sparks of the Autobots.  
  
He feared he led them all to their death. In that moment, there was the tiniest spark of anger, of hate. For Alpha Trion. The mech who had taken him, altered his frame without permission, shoved a holy relic around his spark, and replaced his load-bearing shoulder mounts with weapon battery mounts.  
  
Orion Pax died that day in more ways than one.  
  
Their first battle was little more than a stalemate. Optimus Prime walked away from Megatron alive, but there wasn’t a part of him that didn’t ache. Ratchet cursed over his beaten and battered frame as he lay there, having gained a new appreciation both for his trainers and the realities of war.  
  
He had dreams every night after that first battle. He saw himself failing and dying, saw Megatron ripping out his spark and turning the Autobots into either corpses or slaves. He didn’t know which result was worse. The fear gripped him, made it near impossible to want to set pede upon that battlefield again.  
  
But Optimus did, his weapons a little heavier this time. He’d been given a duty he hadn’t wanted, but that didn’t mean he would allow himself to fail.  
  
So he charged his blaster, ensured his weapons batteries were prepared, and stepped onto the battlefield.  
  
He would be the leader the Autobots needed. He would do his best to end the war. And he would do his best to save as many sparks as possible.  
  
The weight of his weapons would be all the reminder he needed.


	105. Win-Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: SunstreakerxSideswipe  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: twincest, sticky  
> Description: Sideswipe squeaks and Sunstreaker discovers a weakness. Score.

Half-awake, in the muzzy minutes right before they need to report to shift, is the best time to interface. Well, sometimes.   
  
In their berth, curled around Sideswipe, lazily thrusting into that warm, grasping valve, it's like a slice of what the humans call heaven. Sunstreaker's engine purrs with approval. His hands stroke a path of pleasure over Sideswipe's chest, his sides, his hips. He teases over Sideswipe's spike, plays with the seeping head and then reaches lower, fingers tracing his anterior node.   
  
Sideswipe moans low in his chassis, arches back against him, his hips rocking back against Sunstreaker.   
  
There's no urgency, no desperation. Just the slow build of heat that gradually loosens Sunstreaker's plating and makes his fans spin in a thrumming rhythm. He nuzzles the back of Sideswipe's helm, lips and ex-vents tickling against the sensitive cables, smelling the special wax he orders to keep Sideswipe as shiny as Sunstreaker expects him to be.   
  
Sideswipe squeaks.   
  
Sunstreaker's already lingering thrusts, slow further. ”Did you just squeak?”   
  
“No,” Sideswipe says, but there it is once more, a small noise as Sunstreaker nips at his audial and ex-vents again.   
  
“Yes, you did,” Sunstreaker says and his lips curl with amusement. It's cute. “You're squeaking.”  
  
“Well, you're...” Sideswipe squirms, his field blooming with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. And then he mumbles something.   
  
Sunstreaker tilts his helm, directing his audial closer to Sideswipe. “I'm what?”  
  
Sideswipe wriggles around again, his valve clenching down as though trying to convince Sunstreaker's spike to move faster. Instead, Sunstreaker pushes in deep, to the hilt, and waits.   
  
“What am I, Sideswipe?”  
  
His brother squirms like Bluestreak holding on to a juicy secret, but it's less impatience than it is whatever caused him to squeak in the first place.   
  
“... it tickles,” he finally answers in a small voice.   
  
Tickles?  
  
For a long moment, probably one that tells Sideswipe all he needs to know without Sunstreaker saying a word, Sunstreaker tries not to laugh. His ex-vents, he realizes, are directing themselves right at the base of Sideswipe's helm, ghosting over the components usually protected by overlapping armor plates. It probably does, in a way, tickle.   
  
“Don't laugh,” Sideswipe says, and he twitches his aft at Sunstreaker in such a way that he knows drives Sunstreaker wild.   
  
“I'm not,” Sunstreaker says as he starts to thrust again, pace more hurried this time as the pause had done little to calm down the growing need in his spike.   
  
“I can feel the grin on your face,” Sideswipe accuses, but it's with a gasp as Sunstreaker's spike nudges that deep, deep node and his fingers flirt with Sideswipe's anterior sensor.   
  
“There's no grin,” Sunstreaker lies, and then he nudges his lips to the back of Sideswipe's helm again and purposefully ex-vents.   
  
Sideswipe thrashes in his arms, a dance both adorable and arousing, his valve spooling down tight on Sunstreaker's spike. “Torturer,” he says with a moan. His field spikes with lazy, warm pleasure.   
  
Sunstreaker chuckles and yeah, maybe it has a bit of an evil bite to it. “You know it,” he purrs and pushes harder into Sideswipe, dragging a gasp from both of them.   
  
The pleasure is spiraling out now, swallowing them both whole. Sunstreaker holds Sideswipe tighter and slams into his twin's valve, all pretense of slow and steady gone. Now there's only overload and the pursuit of it because Sideswipe's moaning Sunstreaker's favorite song and writhing about in his arms in Sunstreaker's favorite dance.   
  
When he overloads, it's with a spurt of transfluid over their berth and a tight clamp on Sunstreaker's spike. One that drags him over as well, spilling deep within Sideswipe's valve.   
  
The berth rattles with their combined cooling fans and Sunstreaker nuzzles the back of Sideswipe's helm, once again purposefully ex-venting. Sideswipe kicks at his ankle with a glancing blow that doesn't so much as scuff.   
  
“Aft,” he says.   
  
“Love you, too,” Sunstreaker murmurs. And yeah, he's grinning.   
  
Now the next time Sideswipe dribbles sticky energon goodies all over him just to be a brat, Sunstreaker knows how to get some payback without Ratchet getting involved.   
  
Win-win.   
  


****


	106. Battle Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Battle Lust  
> Characters: Strika/Lugnut  
> Universe: Animated, pre-series  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: referenced sticky   
> Description: Strika and Lugnut celebrated every victory.

They would do anything for the glory of Megatron and the Decepticons. The war had been their shining moment: fighting side by side with Lord Megatron, destroying Autobots and their Supremes, marching on the road to victory.

Defeat was a setback. A minor one. Strika had always believed this. The Decepticons would rise again and they would destroy the Autobots and reclaim Cybertron. They had only to put their faith into Megatron.

It was an easy enough task.

But Strika never forgot how those moments of glory felt. How Lugnut would come back to her with the scent of battle clinging to his frame. The smell of laserfire and charred energon and smoke would waft from his armor like a cologne. It would call to Strika's spark and zing straight to her interface.

He would be running hot, always running hot. His fans spinning at ultra-speed, his energy field a frenetic whirl of satisfaction and victory and obedience. For he served at Lord Megatron's side. Always next to their lord and master. He was an asset whose worth was beyond measure.

Strika commanded her own troops. She was one of Lord Megatron's favored generals, but she did not occupy his side as Lugnut did.

Lugnut would return to her smelling of battle and victory and Lord Megatron, the scent of his blaster discharge and the faint taste of Lord Megatron in his field.

Strika's own troops had learned to scatter when Lugnut returned to her. They'd learned to either empty the hallway or the docking bay or wherever it was Lugnut happened to find her first. Because Strika had no care for waiting.

Another victory had been won. Both she and Lugnut had survived. Lord Megatron reigned supreme. And all Strika wanted to do was celebrate.

There was only one other person for whom Lugnut would bend his knee, and it was to her. Lugnut would come to her, his helm bowed, and he would drop to a knee. He would offer her a hand and she would take it.

“Congratulations, only one,” Strika would say. “We are united again.”

“My Strika,” Lugnut would rumble, his optics gleaming up at her.

And she would smile and let her field crash down over his, as ripe with need and longing as Lugnut's was for her. After that point, there was nothing could come between them. Nothing and no one, save Lord Megatron himself, and all he ever did was give them an indulgent look. Amusement would touch his lips.

Permission granted and there was nothing to stop Strika from taking Lugnut then and there. Nothing to keep their cries of pleasure from echoing through the halls of Lord Megatron's flagship, or the sound of Lugnut singing her praises.

Yes, those were good times, Strika remembered. And she vowed they would come again. Lord Megatron would rise from the ashes of their defeat, and they would taste victory once more.

Strika was certain of it.


	107. Old Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Old Enemies  
> Characters: Ratchet, Sixshot  
> Universe: IDW, pre-Empire of Stone  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: Sixshot was the last mech Ratchet expected to encounter in the aft end of space.

He had no idea how he was going to find Drift. There was an entire universe out there to search and all Ratchet had was a vague direction and a homing beacon in the shuttle Drift had taken. Blaster had handed over both with a wink and Ratchet had responded with a growl.

Blaster had wisely backed off. Nosy fragger.

Ratchet sighed and continued on. It was exhausting to do nothing. He let the auto-pilot follow a course for the most part, which left him nothing to do in his free time but think. And Ratchet was not a fan of self-reflection.

Something beeped, stirring Ratchet from his twilight state. He rubbed at his forehelm and peered at the panel. Proximity alert. To what? There was nothing but open space for miles around.

Ratchet's shuttle bumped just as the communications panel buzzed. He startled and grasped the controls, frantically switching to manual control. He punched the accelerator, but all he managed was a grind from the engine. His entire shuttle shook. He was caught by something.

Ratchet growled and plugged into the sensors, which recognized a larger ship above his. Probably an eight to ten mech ship if he was guessing the size correctly. How it had gotten the jump on him without his perimeter sensors noticing until it was too late, Ratchet didn't know. Cloaking device maybe. His console buzzed again. He was being hailed.

He had no idea who it could be. Ratchet glared and smacked the panel. “Who the frag are you and what the frag do you think you're doing?”

The screen fuzzed with static before an image appeared, one that send shards of ice straight through to Ratchet's spark. “Is that any way to speak to someone who's offering assistance?”

“Sixshot,” Ratchet growled. He's surprised the massive mech hadn't just blown him to bits. “What do you want?”

Red optics gleamed a little brighter. “A little bit of company,” Sixshot purred. “It gets lonely out here in space.”

“Do I look stupid?”

“Now, now. The war's over, isn't it?” Sixshot makes a vague gesture. “Is there any reason for you to be so hostile toward me now?”

“I can name a few,” Ratchet growled. His entire frame was tense.

“That's the past, medic.” Sixshot's face moved closer to the expression and the volume of the transmission rose. “Can't we forgive and forget? I'm sure I can be of... assistance.”

There was something positively lewd in the way he said it, too. A shiver raced down Ratchet's backstrut and he couldn't decide, exactly, what it meant. “I suppose my survival hinges upon you hearing the answer you want to hear.”

Sixshot chuckled. “That depends on whether you choose to attack me first. I just want the pleasure of your company. Is that so much to ask?”

Ratchet frowned and didn't care that Sixshot could see it. “Fine,” he growled. “I'll play your game for now.”

"I'll extend the docking clamp," Sixshot purred. "Welcome aboard, Ratchet." The screen went dark.

Ratchet ex-vented with a shudder. He'd survived Sixshot before. Surely he could do so again.


	108. Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Whispers  
> Characters: Optimus/Starscream  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky   
> Description: Starscream was more than halfway to overload, and all without a single touch.

He woke shivering, not because he was cold, but because heat was racing through his frame to the beat of his spinning fans and pulsing spark. Charge crawled under his plating and through his lines.   
  
Starscream moaned, his peripheral sensors clicking on one by one. But it was the reboot of his audials that provided the reason.   
  
Optimus was whispering to him, his low vocals delineating each and every dirty thought he'd ever had. Every hot, wet, and messy sexual act he wanted to do to Starscream or receive in return. He hadn't laid so much as a hand upon Starscream, but those vocals purring in his audial had left Starscream responding on instinct.   
  
He was more than halfway to overload and all without a single touch.   
  
“Primus,” Starscream gasped as Optimus described, in detail, how much he would love to nuzzle his face between Starscream's thighs and lick him to overload. “Shouldn't you be recharging?”   
  
Optimus chuckled and rested a hand on his hip, thumb stroking between a plating seam. “I was. But you presented such the delectable image that I had to share with you the thoughts you provoke in me.”   
  
“You? Or your spike?” Starscream asked as Optimus rocked his hips and a very present, very wet spike brushed his abdomen   
  
Not that he was opposed. Oh, no. Another spike of arousal made its way through his frame and Starscream slid his own hand down his frame, stroking the head of his own spike. It was emerging from its housing in a wet slide, charge sparkling at the tip.   
  
Optimus nuzzled into his throat, one knee attempting to work its way between Starscream's thighs and he conceded to allow it. If only because he would enjoy opening his panel and rubbing his flushed valve down upon Optimus' thigh. He would go after his own overload and leave Optimus wanting.   
  
Served him right for waking Starscream up.   
  
“Both, I should think,” Optimus said. His hand slid from hip to aft to Starscream's thigh, pulling his upper leg up and over Optimus' own, baring his heated panel to the cool of the air-conditioned room.   
  
Starscream's panel, however, stayed closed. Even when Optimus rolled his hips and rubbed the wet tip of his spike against it.   
  
“Are you being coy?” Optimus asked.   
  
Starscream grinned and threw an arm over the Prime's shoulders, letting his fingers tickle at the base of Optimus' neck, where clever talons could slide up and into the barely present seam of Optimus' helm. It was a sensitive spot, he knew, and was rewarded with a full frame shiver from Optimus. A low, breathless moan that highlighted the way Optimus all but melted in his arms.   
  
“No,” Starscream said, rocking his hips toward Optimus' spike. “Just evening the odds.”   
  
“Starscream?”   
  
“Hm?”  
  
Optimus' mouth traveled a hot and nibbling path up Starscream's intake and over his jaw. “Kiss me,” Optimus said.   
  
“Well, if you insist,” Starscream drawled, and condescended to tilt his helm down and capture Optimus' mouth, sucking on the Prime's glossa and pulling it into his mouth in a mimicry of oral sex.   
  
Optimus moaned. He pressed harder against Starscream, spike rubbing against his panel. And well, Starscream supposed he could be gracious just this once.   
  
He triggered the panel open and let Optimus slide inside, both of them shuddering with pleasure as Optimus' spike parted the folds of Starscream's valve and their sensors lined up and latched together.   
  
There were certainly worse ways to wake up, Starscream supposed, and then Optimus rocked into him a little deeper, grinding against his ceiling node, and all other thoughts fell away to pleasure.   
  
Starscream wasn't complaining one bit.


	109. Wild Wild West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> G1 AU  
> Rated: K+  
> Desc: If only Jazz had known of Prowl's reputation, he might not have gotten caught.

It wasn't the worst day he'd ever had. But it was frag sure close.   
  
Jazz cursed and threw his wrench down with disgust. He snatched a nearby cloth to wipe the oil and energon from his fingers. His cycle was toast. There was no ifs, ands, or buts about it. He'd have to get Wheeljack to look at. No matter how much he tinkered with it himself, this cycle wasn't going to be up and running anytime soon.   
  
Jazz sighed and sent in the maintenance request, the plucky engineer responding almost immediately. Morning people were not Jazz's favorite people, but Wheeljack was good people so he supposed he could deal with it. Especially since Wheeljack was going to hop on over to take a look at it shortly.   
  
Jazz checked his chronometer. Double frag. Too much fiddling and he was minutes close to being late for his shift.   
  
Jazz darted back into his bungalow, splashed some solvent over his arms, and wiped away the flecks on his dermal plate. He adjusted the tilt of his badge. Deputy, not the best job he'd ever had, but not the worst. There were perks.   
  
He left the door to the shed unlocked for Wheeljack – if some bandit wanted to make off with the broke cycle, he was more than welcome – and bolted out the door, only to have to dart back into his bungalow for his hat. He always forgot the slagging hat.   
  
He wouldn't even wear the hat if it weren't for Prowl. Mech was a stickler for protocol. He said if Jazz was gonna make something of himself, he could start by following the rules.   
  
Hat retrieved, Jazz bolted back out the door, letting it flap in the wind, and straight into a hot, dry, and dusty morning. Business as usual here on the edge of the Rust Sea, a misnomer Jazz thought, cause there wasn't a bit of moisture out here. Just miles and miles of flat land covered in layers of grit and rust. Perfect breeding territory for outlaws and ingrates. Jazz should know. He used to be one of 'em.   
  
His visor instantly darkened in the face of the glaring sunlight. Jazz's plating crawled. He didn't think he'd ever get used to standing out in the open. Shadows were more his friend, but he'd been told he couldn't hide in those anymore either.   
  
Frag Prowl to the Pit and back. Not literally, but Jazz was quite happy to blame Prowl for this, too.   
  
Jazz folded into alt-mode, a low-slung skiff that was ill-suited to the desert-like terrain and headed for the station. His chronometer was already clicking toward tardiness and he could just imagine the look of disappointment on Prowl's face. Those little sensory panels of his – targets really – would flick a couple times, reflecting his ire.   
  
Jazz's field rippled with amusement. He almost slowed down to be late on purpose. Riling Prowl was the most fun he had right now. Well, other than the occasional fight up at the Old Oil House or down in the Red Light Alley. They didn't get raids too much here in Ibelex. Too many bandits feared Prowl.   
  
If only Jazz had heard of Prowl's reputation, he might not have gotten caught. Ah, well. Ya live, ya learn, ya get a badge slapped on your chest and a busted cycle in your shed, and a patrol partner who was the sexiest sheriff this side of the Rust Sea. Unavailable, unfortunately, because Jazz had asked. But still sexy.   
  
Sadly, Jazz arrived at the station on time. He popped out of alt-mode and strode into the station with a whistle and a fine “how do you do?” to their desk monitor and dispatcher, Rewind. He was a good kid, little small, but Jazz didn't mistake his size for lack of threat. Rewind would be downright dangerous when he wanted to be.   
  
“You're almost late,” Rewind said. “Cycle break again?”   
  
“Jack's gonna look at it,” Jazz replied with a tip of his hat. “The boss in?”   
  
“Since sun up.”   
  
Figured. Jazz chuckled and rapped his knuckles on Rewind's desk of overflowing lock-up registries and wanted posters. He headed for the back, where the door to Prowl's tiny office was open. Not because he wanted visitors, but because Jazz had broken it the last time they'd scrapped and Prowl hadn't fixed it yet.   
  
Jazz didn't enter, choosing instead to lounge against the door frame. Prowl didn't so much as look up, entirely focused on frowning at a wanted poster flickering on his desk. From here, Jazz couldn't see the face on it. But the bounty was high. Like Sixer, high.   
  
“You are precisely on time,” Prowl said as he slowly lifted his helm. “Happy accident?”   
  
Jazz grinned. “I don't know what you mean. I'm always punctual.”   
  
Prowl arched an orbital ridge at him as he flipped the wanted poster over, concealing the face from view. “Your definition of punctual and mine vastly differ,” he said and pushed to his pedes. “You are ready for patrol?”   
  
“So long as you're ready to give me a loaner.”   
  
Prowl cycled a ventilation and circled around his desk, every bit of his plating gleaming in the light from the window. How anyone could stay shiny in this dusty wasteland, Jazz didn't know.   
  
“I don't have one. We'll walk,” Prowl replied with that little flutter in his sensory panels that indicated exasperation.   
  
“We could always--”  
  
“No, Jazz, we are not doubling-up,” Prowl said with a cutting glance at him. Seriously, those ice-blue optics of his could slice titanium.   
  
“You take the fun out of everything.”   
  
“This is not meant to be fun,” Prowl retorted as he edged past Jazz out of his office and headed in a steady clip for the front door. “Rewind, comm us if anything comes up. We may lose signal a little later as we approach the Dead Zone.”   
  
“Yes, sir.” Rewind sketched a salute and half-lit his optical band in a wink at Jazz.   
  
In turn, Jazz gave him an exaggerated sigh. Walking around Ibelex? That was going to be exhausting. Wheeljack better get his cycle finished fast.   
  
Rewind snorted and Jazz sketched his own salute before hurrying after Prowl, who would chastise him for dawdling.   
  
Just another day on the edge of the Rust Sea, Jazz thought. Just another day.

***


	110. My Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IDW MTMTE pos-EoS  
> Rated: T  
> Desc: Drift and Ratchet disagree on levels of protection.

They should have known better. The number of planets welcoming to Cybertronian's was nil to none. But Drift had a “good feeling” about the spaceport and Ratchet recognized that their supplies were running low. At this rate, they might not make it back to the _Lost Light_.   
  
How were either of them supposed to know that Embeye was a pirate trading post? Or that the resident organics not only recognized Drift but held a grudge?  
  
“Is there anyone in this universe who you haven't fragged off?” Ratchet growled as he tried to pull Drift behind him.  
  
Drift kept resisting, however, resulting in a tug of war that would have been amusing if laserfire wasn't pockmarking their meager shelter of supply crates. They were boxed in a closet, bringing back uncomfortable memories for Ratchet, though fortunately it was not Overlord on the other side of the doors.   
  
“I've lost count,” Drift replied blandly. He tugged on Ratchet's arm. “Get behind me. My armor's sturdier than yours.”   
  
“But they're less likely to shoot at someone with symbols like these!” Ratchet snarled, pointing to the universal symbol for healer stamped on his shoulders. He put them there when he left to retrieve Drift on purpose. They'd helped get him out of more than one jam while he was still hunting around looking for Drift.   
  
“News flash, Ratch, they don't care about your paint job!” Drift retorted and he tugged a bit harder, not that it did any good.   
  
Ratchet was a lot heavier than he looked. And when he planted his feet, nothing could move him short of Megatron or Optimus Prime or... or Overlord.   
  
Another burst of laserfire and they were forced to duck down, the first line of supply crates nearly obliterated. “You're going to pay for your treachery, Deadlock!” A voice called out to them.   
  
Generic threats. As if Ratchet hadn't heard worse before. He rolled his optics and returned his attention back to Drift, squeezing a grip around the speedster's wrist.   
  
“And I didn't travel halfway across the universe to watch you die here,” he said. One good shove and Drift was behind him where he ought to be, Ratchet's greater mass easily concealing the slim swordsmech.   
  
Drift shook himself free with all the slithering capability of Jazz, however. “And I'm not letting anyone else die because of me,” he snapped and before Ratchet could say or do anything, Drift had leapt over the secondary barricade of crates, swords leaping into his hands. “I'm right here, you slaggers!”   
  
“Drift!”   
  
Ratchet snarled every curseword he knew, not to mention a few choice phrases from a few other languages, and charged after the maniac swordsman. Laserfire split the air again and Ratchet's pistol leapt into his hand.  
  
“Ratchet, stay back!”   
  
“Like frag, I will!”   
  
“There he is! Kill the traitor!”  
  
These pirate organics weren't tiny by any means, unfortunately. They were about the size of the average speedster, which meant Ratchet was larger and heavier than them. In hand to hand combat, Ratchet emerged supreme, and frag it all, but Drift was right. They took one look at the symbols on his arms and shot anyway.   
  
Drift was just ahead of him, hacking away with those overgrown knives of his, hollering something about revenge being a dish best served now which seemed like a mixed metaphor to Ratchet. But then another of those four-armed organics leapt at him from the side and Ratchet shot him in the face.   
  
Ew.   
  
“Die Cybertronian scum!”   
  
Well, now they were just getting personal.   
  
Ratchet looked back down the hallway to see Drift engaged with one of the aliens while another lined up a shot. Frag that. Ratchet skidded to a halt, took careful aim, and with another disgusting splat, that alien was down for the count. In the same moment, slash went one of Drift's swords, and his own opponent's head was severed from its shoulders.   
  
“Can we get out of here now?” Ratchet demanded, feeling as though he were running on anger more than anything else.   
  
Drift shook the blood from his sword and turned back toward Ratchet. His field spiked and his optics flashed.   
  
“Down!” he shouted.   
  
Ratchet didn't think, he obeyed, throwing himself to the ground and his arms over his helm. He heard a whistle, the squelch of metal through organic material, and a gurgling groan. Ratchet peered carefully over his shoulder only to see one of the slave traders collapsing, Drift's sword sticking out of his chest.   
  
Well.   
  
“That's one you owe me,” Drift said as he came into view, offering a hand to Ratchet.   
  
He took it, letting Drift pretend to pull him to his pedes. Lifting Ratchet wasn't really a possibility, no matter how strong Drift thought he was. Ratchet had made sure to fully stock up before he left the _Lost Light_.   
  
“Compared to the three you owe me?” Ratchet countered, on the verge of a grump. He took stock of their surroundings and grimaced. “Can we get out of here now?”   
  
Drift retrieved his sword and offered Ratchet that dazzling smile of his that never failed to make Ratchet's spark whirl. “Race you back to the ship?” he offered.   
  
Ratchet rolled his optics. “It's been centuries since I moved fast on anything, kid, tires or feet.”   
  
“What happened here?” The shocked demanded floated toward them from the next hallway over.   
  
Frag.   
  
Ratchet looked at Drift, the swordsmech nodding his helm. Time to go.   
  
Drift took off, leading the way, and Ratchet followed in his wake.  
  
“You should let me go first,” Ratchet said. “I make a better shield.”   
  
“Nope. I owe you,” Drift tossed back cheerfully.   
  
Another round of laserfire split the air above their helms, forcing them into a ducking run with Ratchet getting a nice view of Drift's aft. Cheeky slagger probably planned it that way.   
  
They did, eventually, make it back to their shuttle.   
  
Final score?   
  
Well, they came up even.   
  
Until they found the berth.

****


	111. Gestalt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus Prime, Megatron (refs to Optimus Maximus)  
> Universe: IDW, ex-RiD, Combiner Wars  
> Description: How are you like your gestalt members? How have you differentiated yourself from their attitude and values?

It was a good question.

Optimus sipped at his energon, his gaze lowered to the table.

“I am–”

_Dirty. Broken. Rebuilding. Never going to get clean, but I have to keep trying because there has to be something better. I need cloths and washracks and soaps, lots of soap. Tired of the voices in my head, can’t get them out, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop._

He paused. Reconsidered.

“It was–”

 _So much power and I can’t even use it, can’t control it. I am under-over-whelmed and there’s nothing I can do about it. I am powerful and powerless and the numbers don’t add up. Consumed. Beneath. Without victory. It has to be done. It must be done. Don’t make me beg._

He rebooted his vocalizer. He took another sip of energon to moisten his glossa. “Why do you ask me that?” Optimus redirected.

Baleful red optics stared back at him from a faceplate distressingly neutral. “I once battled a creature composed of hundreds of Decepticons. I find myself both curious and horrified at the prospect of sharing mind and body with four strangers.”

Optimus shook his helm. “They were not strangers. They were fellow soldiers and friends.”

Megatron laughed at him, despite the weight of the sins on his shoulders and the Autobot badge staring back at Optimus. A badge he did not deserve to wear.

No. That thought had not been Optimus’.

“I’m not sure you can call all of them ‘friend’, Optimus,” Megatron replied with a fanged smirk. “Considering some of their deeds, I’m surprised you still call half of them Autobots.”

Optimus frowned and would have triggered his battle mask if Megatron would not have seen such a gesture as a weakness. “Yes,” he said, dryly. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Nowadays they’ll let anyone wear the badge.”

He paused, optics cycling wide. Where… had that come from?

There was a beat of silence. Megatron laughed. He leaned forward, propping his chin on the heel of his hand and his elbow on the table. “Mmm. I think I like you like this, Prime. It makes you more honest. So tell me again, since you haven’t answered me yet, how are you like your gestalt?”

Optimus toyed with his energon. “I am–”

_Confused. This ain’t the future I envisioned. This ain’t the dream I had. Nothin’ makes sense and all I need’s a villain. Point me in the right direction, show me the way, cause politics ain’t my thing, but I’m playing them anyway and here I am with these traitors and if no one’s got anyone else’s back than I will. Cause that’s what I do._

His processor ached. Optimus ground his denta. He could feel Megatron staring at him and he knew he had to come up with something plausible before Megatron started to think he had some kind of edge. This was a very dangerous game.

Optimus rebooted his vocalizer.

_Hate. Swallow it down. Discomfort and loathing. Peace has been made, but forgiveness yet to be earned. Forgiveness is a process, not a couple of words and a smile. My solitude has been stripped. I am not me, and there are no secrets, and I cannot function like this. I am a creature of secrets and solitude. What have you done to me?_

Optimus snagged the energon and consumed it one fell swoop. He jerked to his pedes, nearly throwing his chair at the wall behind him, until he whirled to catch it. His helm ached. His spark pulsed. His fingers twitched.

He felt… not himself. Incomplete. He was missing something.

“You seem disturbed, Prime.” Megatron smirked at him. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, Autobot badge still prominently displayed.

_Rip it off._

_It’s not his to wear._

_He poisons everything he touches._

_We all need a chance._

Optimus shook his helm. The world spun. “This conversation is over,” he said, firmly. “I don’t know why you summoned me in the first place, Megatron, but I do not have time for your games.”

He strode around the table and aimed for the door. He had nothing more to say to the former Decepticon commander. He couldn’t afford to question himself and his decisions. He was Prime. He had to be firm.

“You can walk away, Optimus, but that doesn’t change the reason why I am here,” Megatron said with a laugh. “You’ll have to face these questions sooner or later.”

Optimus whirled back toward him, a retort on his lips, and stared at an empty chair. He wobbled, grabbing the wall for balance.

Megatron was gone.

If he’d ever been there at all.

A small cry escaped Optimus and he staggered back, his aft plate hitting the wall. He pressed his palm against his optics. He cycled a ventilation.

And still the voices in his head tried to drown him out.

****


	112. Band of Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream, Swoop, Sludge, Snarl, Slag, Grimlock  
> Universe: G1 AU  
> Description: Starscream finds out what Grimlock really meant when he said they were a package deal.

It started with Swoop.

Starscream had just taken to the air for a nice solo flight when he found himself no longer alone. Swoop soared alongside him, easily matching Starscream’s leisurely speed.

“You Starscream fly beautifully,” he said over open comms.

“Thank you, Swoop.” Starscream resisted the urge to preen. He banked to the right and Swoop copied him.

It couldn’t hurt to be nice. Grimlock would appreciate it.

“You aren’t doing so bad yourself,” Starscream replied.

Swoop squawked. His field flushed with embarrassment.

“Thank you,” he said and he took off.

Bemused, Starscream watched him go.

Sludge showed up next, outside Starscream’s office, clutching a crumpled bouquet of metallic flowers from Bluestreak’s shop.

“For you Starscream,” he said as he thrust them toward Starscream, the metallic petals clinking together. “Because you Starscream shine as pretty.”

“Thank you, Sludge.” He accepted the somewhat dented bundle. “That was very thoughtful.”

Sludge shuffled his pedes. “You Starscream welcome. Um. You have good day.”  
He was gone as quickly as he’d arrived. Well, quickly for Sludge.

Starscream smiled to himself, set the flowers in his stylus cup, and went back to work.  
Slag showed up at his midday energon break, intercepting Starscream before he could get to the dispenser and shoving a box toward Starscream. The delicately tied bow bobbed at him.

“Take it,” Slag all but growled, his horns quivering with repressed emotion.

Starscream blinked. “Thank you?” The box had a weight to it that suggested it was full of energon goodies. He recognized the symbol on the top – it had come from Brawl’s cafe.

“You Starscream should enjoy,” Slag said aggressively. “It sweet like you!”

And then he stormed off as though greatly offended, leaving Starscream to blink again. He pulled off the ribbon and sure enough, there were energon candies inside. His favorite brand of sweet and sour flavors, too.

Starscream shrugged and took his treats back to his office.

In the washracks, he felt a presence behind him, and turned to see Snarl inching into view, his face set into a glower but his hands clutching two bottles on the verge of exploding.

“These better,” he said as he set them on the shelf just inside the wall. “For you Starscream.”

Starscream turned and let the water beat down on his wings. “Another gift for me?”

Snarl hovered in the opening. “You Starscream smart,” he said. “You figure it out.” He puffed up, all defensive, and then spun on a heelstrut, almost stomping out of the washracks.

Starscream cycled his optics and picked up one of the bottles, whistling in appreciation. This was the best stuff. Sunstreaker and Tracks’ blend. Well, he was starting to feel just a little spoiled.

It left him in a fine mood as he headed back to the habsuite he and Grimlock were sharing. He keyed in the code and walked inside as it opened, words already on the tip of his glossa.

“I’m back!” he called out as he swept his gaze through the front and found no sign of his errant partner. “You know, the strangest thing happened today. I kept getting visits from your brothers and–”

Starscream came to a halt. He blinked in surprise. He stared, from the open doorway of their shared berth, as five Dinobots lounged in various places around the room. Grimlock was on the berth with Swoop cuddled up beside him and Slag perched at his pedes. Sludge and Snarl were on the chair nearby, the poor thing creaking under their combined mass.

Starscream folded his arms over his chestplate. “Not strange after all, I take it.” His orbital ridges crawled upward. “Is this what you meant when you said the Dinobots were a package deal?”

Grimlock chuckled and stroked a finger down Swoop’s wing. “Knew you’d figure it out. Any objections?”

Starscream’s gaze skimmed over each one of the Dinobots in turn. His wings flicked and he strutted further into the room, letting the door shut behind him. “None at all.”

****


	113. Bun in the Oven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron, Decepticon Ensemble, Optimus, Jazz  
> Warnings: mechpreg/mpreg themes   
> Description: Megatron finds himself sparked. Only problem is, he doesn't know who to blame.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize what his lingering discomfort, sudden and voracious need for facing, and increased energon consumption meant. It took all the control he had not to backhand Hook when the mech smirked at him and confirmed his suspicions.

But it was Scavenger’s innocent, “Who’s the donor?” that really sent Megatron into a loop.

Because, errr, he didn’t know.

Megatron was not a one-mech Decepticon. He had no interest in monogamy, and he had little interest in repeating his partners. He liked variety. He liked different flavors.

All he wanted was a little quiet time, a little privacy, to maybe count backward and possibly pinpoint who had left him in this state. That way he could remove their spike from their frame and demand to know why they didn’t have their fostering lock activated.

But what he hadn’t noticed, during Hook’s bland and amused announcement, was that Skywarp was in the next room due to a warping mishap. And what Skywarp knows, everyone on the Nemesis finds out almost immediately.

The pinging at his door was relentless. Everyone from Starscream to Motormaster to Barricade to Soundwave were swinging by with mingled looks of hope and dread in their optics. He even turned down two comm calls – two! – from the Autobots because somehow they had found out and Optimus and Jazz both wanted to inquire as to the identity of the donor.

Damn Prime’s invisible noble spy to the Pits and back.

And now there was fighting outside his door. Fantastic.

Megatron hauled himself to his pedes, slammed the door open, and walked into chaos. He stared with wide optics as snarling, snapping, clawing, biting, shouting, and mayhem reigned in the hallway.

They were… arguing? Over whose bitlet it possibly was?

Wait, no. Soundwave wasn’t participating. He wasn’t even here, though Megatron could see Ravage lurking in the overhead vents. Not that it mattered. A few quick calculations put his third in command out of the running. Better luck next time Soundwave.

Megatron’s hackles rose. He lifted his fusion cannon and fired three shots into the worst of the fray, not caring who he struck.

Brawl yelped.

Ramjet howled.

Reflector squirmed free.

Silence slowly took charge as Megatron’s Decepticons turned toward him with a mixture of glee and anticipation and in some case’s – Starscream – sullen contempt.

“I will inform you the identity when I know it,” Megatron snarled, his words cutting through the air like energon daggers. “And not before then. No amount of fighting, harassing, stalking, and continuous calling will convince me otherwise! Even then, the bitlet is mine and I will decide how much influence the donor gets. Am I understood?”

His wrist twitched. His fusion cannon glowed. He wondered if repeating himself with a few more shots would make his point better.

A sigh of disappointment swept through his gathered Decepticons. They mumbled a chorus of sullen “yes, Lord Megatron” and rose to their pedes, some of them a bit more injured than others.

They slunk away, even Starscream, and Megatron returned to the peace and quiet of his quarters. He picked up the datapad Hook had handed over, and given Hook’s calculations, started to count backward. Should be easy enough except…

Except why did it have to be this particular day?

This day when he’d onlined feeling eager to sate his carnal desires and had happily fragged his way through half of the Nemesis. Including a visit from Optimus’ pet Special Ops spy. No wonder he’d called.

Megatron sighed and palmed his faceplate.

Nothing left to it. He’d have to do a CNA test, which as everyone knew, wasn’t possible until the bitlet was born.

It was going to be a long year.

But on the plus side, it looked like he was going to be spoiled beyond all reason. So maybe there was something to look forward to after all.

****


	114. Hands Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Perceptor/Drift  
> Universe: IDW  
> Description: How many more times does Perceptor have to tell Drift not to touch before he listens?

“Drift, don’t touch that,” Perceptor said absently as he caught movement from the edge of his peripheral vision.

White armor was a little hard to miss.

“Oh. Sorry.” Drift ducked his helm a little sheepishly and moved on.

Satisfied, Perceptor returned to his calculations, though he made a mental note to keep one optic on the swordsmech. Sometimes, Drift couldn’t help himself. He had this urge to touch, no matter how many times Perceptor warned him that objects in his laboratory could be dangerous.

Like that beaker of armor-eating acid clearly labeled “danger, do not touch!”

“Drift!” Perceptor hissed as his partner’s fingers jerked back and he tucked his hands at the base of his spinal strut, like a chastised sparkling.

The tips of his helm spars wiggled. “No touching. Got it,” he said and flashed Perceptor one of those ever so charming smiles.

Perceptor’s optics narrowed, an inkling growing at the back of his processor. “I’m almost done,” he said. “Five more minutes. Surely you can be patient for that long.” He’d seen Drift meditate for five hours in complete silence after all.

Drift beamed at him. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Good enough.

Perceptor gave him a longer look of warning, but Drift’s grin never wavered. Perceptor returned to his calculations, though sadly he would have to start over because he lost his focus. It wasn’t so much that this project needed to be completed at once, but that he didn’t want to leave before he followed it through.

Besides, Drift needed to learn to be patient.

He deleted his progress, patiently copied down the original results one more time, and readied himself to begin again. On a whim, he glanced at Drift, who had wandered over near the titration table.

And was reaching out to touch the carefully balanced scale.

Perceptor was up and off his stool in a flash, reacting without thinking. He snatched up Drift’s wrist and put himself between Drift and the table before the swordsmech could so much as cycle a ventilation.

“What part of Do Not Touch was unclear to you?” Perceptor snapped with a carefully measured squeeze to Drift’s wrist. “Honestly, it’s like watching over a youngling. I feel as though I should take you over my knee!”

Drift’s optics cycled wide. He went stiff beside Perceptor, but not rigid enough to keep his fans from clicking on with a sudden and quite noticeable whirr.

“You…” Drift’s intake bobbed. “You… uh… wouldn’t do that, would you, Perceptor?”

Perceptor tilted his helm, experimentally squeezing Drift’s wrists a smidgen harder, until he felt the delicate armor twitch. Drift’s ventilations hitched. His optics darkened.  
Perceptor’s lips pulled into a smirk.

“I think I should,” he purred as Drift produced a full-frame shiver. “I think you are in need of some discipline, don’t you?”

Drift’s glossa flicked over his lips. “If you think I do,” he said and his field pulsed, pushing against Perceptor’s and thick with lust.

Well, Perceptor decided, he could always finish that calculation later. It seemed he had a more important task to handle.

One he would enjoy quite a bit.

****


	115. Fair is Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus/Starscream  
> Universe: G1-ish  
> Description: Optimus and Starscream don't share the same taste in movies.

“I should have known better than to let you choose the movie,” Starscream grumbled as the third movie in the series started to play. And there was still a fourth one after this? Really?

Optimus chuckled and nuzzled against the back of his helm. His field pressed flush to Starscream’s, ripe with affection. “It was my turn, Starscream.”

“So?” He refused to let himself be mollified by the warmth and comfort of Optimus snuggling with him. No matter how much he enjoyed it.

Strong arms tightened around his waist. “Fair is only fair, right?” Optimus murmured with a well-placed kiss to the top edge of Starscream’s right wing.

“Harrumph.” Starscream shivered. “Not when it means over eight hours of pirate-themed human films.”

One wandering hand moved up, tracing the seam of Starscream’s chestplate. “Last week I endured ten hours of Japanese monster movies,” Optimus reminded him.

Starscream leaned back into the Prime’s embrace with a haughty sniff. “Those are cinematic classics that deserve to be preserved.”

“To each his own.” Optimus laughed as his other hand stroked at Starscream’s hip. “Perhaps I might interest you in a distraction then?”

Starscream cycled a ventilation as pleasure began to wind through his circuits. “If you think you are up to the challenge.”

Clever lips nibbled at his audial. “I’ll do my best,” Optimus purred with a heated ex-vent that tickled at Starscream’s plating and excited his sensor nodes.

Starscream tilted his helm to give Optimus better access, his optics dimming until he could no longer see the movie. Such a pity.

“You’re definitely off to a good start,” Starscream moaned as Optimus’ fingers dipped into his seams and caressed the heated cables beneath.

Optimus hummed his appreciation. He rocked against Starscream’s back, his field filling with desire.

Well, this was certainly better than some dumb pirate movie.

Starscream approved.

***


	116. Fear of Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Drift/Starscream  
> Universe: IDW AU  
> Description: Starscream has a request and Drift is absolutely not afraid of agreeing.

“Let me take you flying,” he said, and there was something in the way he grinned and purred the suggestion that made it as much challenge as invitation.

“Sure,” Drift said, and he added an easy smile to it that in no way matched the tremor of discomfort through his spark.

Drift was a grounder. He’d always been a grounder. He’d always had his wheels firmly planted on the ground. If he was flying, it was because he was falling.

But the last thing he was going to do was say as much to Starscream. Not to the mech who sniffed out weakness the same way Springer could sniff out high grade or Blurr could sniff out expensive armor wax.

They made plans. They re-arranged their schedules. Drift wrote out his last will and testament and sent it to Ultra Magnus (because Rodimus was many things but reliable when it came to legal documents was not one of them). Besides, Rodimus thought he was being over-dramatic. He rolled his optics, and told Drift to go flying with his Seeker for all of their sakes.

Starscream was trying to be romantic. Didn’t Drift see?

Sure he saw. He was just… cautious. Not terrified. No. Whatever gave anyone that idea? It was perfectly acceptable to be wary.

“I am not giving you a parachute,” Ratchet said when Drift proposed it to him a day before he was supposed to meet Starscream for their flight. “For one thing, I don’t have time to install one and for two, you don’t need it.”

“I’m going flying with Starscream,” Drift retorted.

Ratchet snorted and bent back over the whatever-it-was he was repairing. Some kind of hip joint? “You’ve been with him for six months. He hasn’t killed you yet. I think that’s some kind of record. So you must be safe.”

Drift fidgeted. He folded his arms over his chest. He stared.

Ratchet looked up at him. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“Of course not!” Drift’s plating ruffled.

“Then you’ll be fine. Now shoo. I have work to do.”

And that was the end of that.

Drift met Starscream the next day, absolutely not nervous, without a parachute but with Ultra Magnus in possession of his last will and testament. Just in case.

Starscream grinned at him, his wings flicking, his field bright and sparkling and… happy. Starscream was happy and yes, it was far too late for Drift to back down now. Starscream was in a genuinely good mood and that was rare enough to be treasured.

“Ready?” Starscream asked as he held out his hand. And it was there, in the undercurrent buried deep in his field, that Drift saw the concern. The uncertainty. The fear that Drift would not take what had been offered.

Drift cycled a ventilation. He trusted Starscream. Which was a lot more than about ninety-five percent of Cybertron could say.

“Yeah,” he said. And he took Starscream’s hand.

*****


	117. Cotton Candy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream, Human OC  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Starscream tries one of the County Fair's more unique treats.

It only came in pink and blue.

Starscream narrowed his optics – eyes, humans called them eyes – and wrinkled his nose. “Pink,” he finally said. 

Did that make it taste sweeter? He didn’t know. But he’d found himself enjoying the more sugary human foods so maybe sweeter was better.

“Anything for a pretty girl,” the greasy creature behind the counter said with a wink.

Starscream shuddered and gamely handed over the paper currency in exchange for a bagful of the lacy-looking treat.

The humans called it cotton candy. Skywarp insisted that he try some. He said it was delicious.

Hmph.

Starscream walked away from the food stand, ignoring the whistling behind him, and untied the ribbon. A syrupy sweet smell floated toward his nose. It wasn’t unpleasant at the least.

He reached in and pinched off a small amount. It came away very fibrous, like spun filament. It seemed to double in size when he did that, too. He gave it a cautious sniff, but it had little odor.

Hmm.

Well, Starscream was not Air Commander for nothing. He popped the fibrous treat into his mouth, where it instantly turned to goopy sweetness on his tongue. What the frag?

Starscream rolled his tongue around and then made a face as the filamenty sugar turned to gritty sludge.

Ick. Ack. Blech.

This was terrible!

Starscream stomped over to the nearest trashcan and shoved it all in there. It tasted like stale rust sticks, all sweet and gritty and why was it so gritty in the first place. It was soft and fluffy and then it turned to grit?

Gross.

He made a beeline for a beverage vendor and shelled out a ridiculous amount of money for a bottle of water. He didn’t care. He simply had to wash the taste out of his mouth. Skywarp was probably cackling right now, the brat.

Delicious, my aft! Starscream seethed internally. He sucked down several gulps of the water. His fingers were sticky, too. The cotton candy had left the tips stained pink.  
How did humans not die from eating this stuff?

Starscream shuddered.

He didn’t know if he dared try the candy apple next.


	118. Relaxation Techniques

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Optimus/Jazz   
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Optimus works too hard. Fortunately, Ratchet and Jazz have a solution.

Optimus was not a mech who often lost control. But he challenged anyone to keep their full faculties about them when they had a ravenous, playful medic at their front and a purring, mischievous saboteur at their back.

Optimus was strong. But he was not so strong as to remain stoic when trapped between two of his oldest, dearest friends. Though he wasn’t sure trapped was an accurate term.

“I told you,” Ratchet said with a smirk on his lips and lust in his field as four fingers pumped steadily into Optimus valve, “that if you did not take some time for yourself, I would find a way to encourage you to relax.”

Jazz chuckled and nipped at Optimus’ audial, his fingers wreaking havoc on Optimus’ seams and spike. “You know you’re supposed to listen to your doctor, OP. Shame, shame.”

Optimus worked his intake and reset his vocalizer, nevertheless, his words were still striped in static. “Your method of convincing is far from discomforting,” he said and gasped as Ratchet’s fingers found and stroked several oft-ignored nodes deep within his valve. He clenched down, lubricant oozing out from under Ratchet’s fingers.

“So long as it works,” Ratchet chuckled. He leaned forward, nuzzling against Optimus’ helm. “You work too hard. You make me worry.” His thumb swept up, circling Optimus’ anterior node and making his hips dance. “Breaks my spark, Prime.”

Ratchet certainly knew how to cut deep. “But–”

“Shh, shh,” Jazz purred as his hand crept up, sweeping around Optimus’ chin before slipping two fingers across Optimus’ lips. “Just let us take care of ya, OP. That’s what we’re here for. That’s what we wanna do.”

Optimus lapped at Jazz’s fingers before he drew them into his mouth. He moaned as Jazz took the opportunity to nibble on his audial again, sending a zing of heat down his backstrut. Nimble fingers curled around his spike, stroking him in long, gentle pulls. Pleasure dribbled through his body like a fine energon, and he struggled to draw cooler air through his vents.

He was the luckiest mech, Optimus realized as his hips danced under Ratchet’s ministrations. Jazz’s fingers removed themselves from his mouth and Optimus made a dismayed noise that was quickly swallowed up by Ratchet’s lips. Ratchet’s glossa plunged into his mouth, twining with his own, tasting of the glass of high grade they’d all shared.

Dismay turned to desire as he felt Jazz’s fingers trace his chestplate seam and Optimus’ spark eagerly danced within his casing. Spark sharing was his favorite, but it was also so rare as to be a treat. His chestplates, as a result, were sensitive to gentle touches, and Jazz was treating him just right.

Optimus shivered. He felt spoiled, wholly and completely spoiled, and honestly, there was no place else he’d rather be.

“Hold on, OP,” Jazz purred as he stroked his fingers deep. “Me ‘n the Doc are gonna face ya into recharge.”

Ratchet smiled against Optimus’ lips. “We sure are,” he said.

Optimus moaned and clutched them closer.

They would see no arguments from him.


	119. En Guarde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sideswipe and Sunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Description: Sideswipe challenges Sunstreaker to a duel.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Sunstreaker bit out as he walked into his shared room with Sideswipe and tripped over chaos.

Sideswipe cackled and brandished something tubular and foam green in Sunny’s direction. “ _En guarde_!”

Sunstreaker’s optics narrowed. “Have you been drinking?”

“Only a little.” Sideswipe shrugged and his foam weapon drooped. “But that’s not what brought this on.”

He gestured with his free hand to the multiple foam tubes scattered across the floor in a dizzying tangle of color.

“Choose your weapon, bro. I refuse to fight an unarmed Lamborghini,” Sideswipe declared.

Sunstreaker snorted and circled around his crazy twin. “I’m not fighting you, Sideswipe. What are these things?” He kicked at one and it wobbled across the floor.

Sideswipe slumped and dropped his arms. “You are no fun. And these are one of mankind’s greatest inventions.”

“I doubt it.” Sunstreaker stepped on one and it flattened beneath his pedes. “It’s squishy and useless.”

Sideswipe waggled a finger at him. “ _Au contraire_ my skeptical sunshine. That is where you are wrong. These things are amazing.”

Sunstreaker folded his arms. “You still haven’t told me what they are.”

Sideswipe swiped a second one off the floor and brandished both of them at Sunstreaker. They hung limply, like a mismatched set of sad, saggy swords.

“Pool noodles,” Sideswipe chirped.

Sunstreaker blinked. He rebooted his audials. No. The words still didn’t make any sense.

“What?”

Sideswipe laughed. “Pool noodles. And they are the newest source of entertainment on this here Ark.”

“For you maybe.” Sunstreaker scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m not in the mood for this.” He spun on a heel, intent on escaping from the madness.

Something soft and squishy bopped him on the helm.

“Villain,” Sideswipe said in a dramatic tone. “You dare turn your back on me?” Mischief rang across the bond, along with something else that made Sunstreaker feel a tad bit guilty.

He paused. He debated. To ignore or play the game. He didn’t particularly want to get involved in Sideswipe’s shenanigans, but that edge of hope in the bond suggested he might have been neglecting his twin as of late. And that Sunstreaker couldn’t abide.

He crouched and picked up one of the foam tubes, this yellow one cut into a star-shape. He slowly turned toward his brother and smirked.

“Then I’ll face you, foolish hero,” he said and he lifted his makeshift weapon. “So you may meet your doom.”

The smile on Sideswipe’s face was worth every second of cheesy dialogue.


	120. Age and Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Kup, Recoil  
> Universe: G1/IDW  
> Description: They were both old, ancient even, but they'd forgotten more about battle than these uppity sparklings had ever learned.

He had a mission. 

Recoil wasn't supposed to talk about said mission, but rules be damned. He was not the sort for covert operations. If they wanted a spy, they should have asked for a spy. But they'd wanted an older mech with attitude and that was what they got. 

“I'm supposed to watch out for you,” Recoil said bluntly. He stared up at the pale green mech who was to be his partner and planted his hands on his hips. “Apparently, you've got the sparklings worried.” 

A smoking cy-gar moved from one side of Kup's mouth to the other. “Is that so?” He laughed, a static-laced rasp that echoed his age, not that Recoil was fooled. 

They were both old. Practically ancient. But they'd forgotten more about battle than these uppity sparklings and their equally young Prime had ever learned. 

“Who's yer contact?” Kup asked. 

Recoil winked. “Springer.” 

“Hah. Should've known. Mech can't stop worryin' no matter how hard he tries.” Kup barked a laugh and puffed out another curl of smoke. “And what're you watching me for?” 

“I guess they think you're going to keel over one day and no one'll be around to drag your rusty aft to the medcenters,” Recoil offered. He popped an orbital ridge. His empty connector rustled, reminding him that he had a link to make. 

Not yet. Recoil had a mission. But he wasn't going to go through with it if Kup didn't agree. Springer might have been… insistent, but he wasn't a Targetmaster. He didn't know what it meant to link. Recoil wasn't about to be attached to a mech who didn't want him. 

“Hah.” Kup snorted and peered at him, sharp optics assessing Recoil from top to bottom. “And what do ya turn into?” 

Recoil smirked. “I'm a Targetmaster. What do you think?” 

Kup unfolded his arms and produced his blaster. “Better than this?” 

“Of course.” Recoil didn't bother to keep the pride out of his vocals. He and Kup, at least, had something in common. Age and experience was worth a lot. He knew his value. 

“Hmm.” Kup twirled the blaster – a musket laser really – with expert motions. “And what do ya think about all this?” 

“I think that it's time we showed these younglings a thing or two.” Recoil lifted his chin and fluffed his plating. “If I have to be bonded to anyone, I want it to be you.” 

Kup smirked. “Two old bots, taking on the war together?” 

“If you agree.” 

Kup spun the musket again and then tossed it aside, planting his hands on his hips. “Sure,” he said. “Why not? At least if I give in and let the sparklings think they're watching out fer me, I could have worse partners.” 

Recoil winked. “Yeah,” he said. “They could have offered you, Peacemaker.”


	121. Dirty Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Blurr/Jazz/Starscream  
> Universe: IDW  
> Description: His partners are putting on a show in an attempt to entice Starscream to join them. It's working more than he'd like to admit.

Starscream folded his arms and frowned. His fingers tapped against his armor. His wings twitched. 

They were making a spectacle of themselves out there. 

Starscream's optics narrowed, but he couldn't seem to tear his gaze away. 

The music throbbed through the air and the floor. Multi-colored lights strobed across polished plating. It was so loud, Starscream could barely hear himself think. 

He didn't know what to call their behavior except that it wasn't dancing. They were interfacing with their panels closed. They were flirting in front of everyone and groping each other shamelessly. It was positively indecent. 

No, Starscream wasn't jealous. 

He continued to watch anyway as Blurr and Jazz bumped and ground against each other, as Blurr snagged Jazz and rolled his hips against Jazz's aft. Or Jazz reached back, hooked a hand against the back of Blurr's neck, and shimmied their frames together. Blurr grinned and grabbed Jazz's jaw with his free hand, fingers sliding over Jazz's lips. Jazz's other hand reached back, grabbing a handful of blue aft. 

And Starscream absolutely was not jealous. 

His engine revved. His cooling fans rattled into a roar. He glared at them, wishing his optics shot fire. 

\--Should just join us,-- trickled across his comm and he didn't have to check the sender to know it was Jazz taunting him. A bright visor had slanted his direction and as Starscream watched, Jazz made lewd motions with his glossa, thoroughly treating Blurr's fingers. 

Starscream snorted. --I don't know what kind of hedonist you think I am, but I am not becoming part of your display.--

Jazz's laugh burst across the comm playfully. Across the dance floor, Starscream saw his lips move and then Blurr's gaze shifted Starscream's direction. His grip on Jazz's hip slid inward, flirting over Jazz's interface panel. 

\--Are you sure?-- Blurr purred, the promise in his gaze enough to send a shiver down Starscream's backstrut. --You look so lonely over there, Star.--

Jazz rolled his hips and suddenly broke his way free of Blurr's embrace, whirling around and wrapping a leg around Blurr's hip so that they could grind their panels together. One hand wrapped over Blurr's shoulder as he tipped back, relying on Blurr's quick grasp of his hips to keep from tilting. One blue hand dragged down Jazz's thigh in full view of Starscream, teasing him. 

The club was dark, the lighting erratic, but not even Starscream could miss the thin trickle of lubricant down the inside of Jazz's thigh. 

Primus. Did neither of them have any shame? 

Starscream's shoulders hunched. His faceplate burned. He tried to look away but their lewd dance was seared into his cortex. 

They were taunting him. 

\--He's not coming, babe,-- Jazz said, his words meant for both Blurr and Starscream. --Guess we'll have to finish this without him.--

Blurr smirked and leaned forward, getting a mouthful of Jazz's intake as he slanted a glance toward Starscream. --His loss.--

Fragging Grounders. So that's how it was, hm? 

Starscream inclined his helm. His thrusters spat fire on the floor. He rolled his metaphorical sleeves. 

Enough of this. 

It was time to show those two what beast they've awakened.


	122. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream, Shockwave   
> Universe: Prime, Post-S3  
> Description: Shockwave would have to tame Starscream using means Megatron had never considered.

Shockwave considered himself a patient mech. Logic dictated that rushing the precise steps of the scientific process often resulted in failure or unexpected consequences.

Therefore, Shockwave had learned to be patient.

Starscream’s current behavior, however, was stressing the limits of that patience. He was – well, not disconsolate – but certainly distracted as of late. He was hampered by emotion – a blend of anger and loss and outrage.

It made Starscream prone to error. To long bouts of either moping or muttered tirades. Usually said tirades were directed at the Autobots. Sometimes, they were focused on Megatron. Other times, they were thinly veiled criticisms of Shockwave himself.

He took no offense. At least, not for the insults, they were of no consequence.

What Shockwave could not abide was waste. Of time. Of resources. Of brilliance.

He had kept Starscream from making a poorly planned attack on the Autobots and an utterly useless dive after their fallen leader. He had done so for a reason. Starscream was more valuable alive. He was brilliant when he was focused and not hampered by his own emotional inadequacies.

There was work to be done. Work Shockwave could not complete on his own. At least, not efficiently.

He needed Starscream. He needed the Seeker to be functional and focused. He didn’t need this… this irrationality.

But Starscream was not ruled by logic. He relied on emotion. He could not be swayed by calm and considerate conversation.

Shockwave would have to invoke a different tactic. He would have to tame Starscream using means Megatron had never considered.

Shockwave would have to be kind.

The very thought of it rankled. It was distasteful. Inefficient. Bothersome.

But needs must.

So Shockwave crafted a plan. He gathered supplies sure to entice a grieving, angry Starscream and he tracked down his partner in crime. They were all who was left of the Decepticon empire.

And Shockwave would not see his labor go to waste.


	123. The Measure of Strength

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus, Starscream  
> Universe: post-Dark Cybertron  
> Description: Two leaders commiserate.

“It’s lonely at the top, isn’t it?”

Starscream stiffened, and then concealed his reaction by flicking his wings. That was one of the last voices he expected to hear.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he drawled as he turned around. “I am exactly where I want to be.”

“Of course you are,” Optimus Prime replied as he came to a stop beside Starscream. He leaned against the rail which had previously been hosting Starscream’s weight. “Far be it for me to assume otherwise.”

Starscream arched an orbital ridge. “And yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” Optimus agreed. He stared out over New Iacon, hands braced, shoulders tense. He looked as though he carried the universe on his shoulders. And of course he did. He was Prime. Everyone’s favorite savior.

Had he come here seeking company? With Starscream? With the mech who was in charge of the planet he’d abandoned?

“Maybe you’re the one who’s lonely, Prime,” Starscream said as he circled to Optimus’ other side. “Or did you just want something from me?”

“I would have thought you’d be angrier,” Optimus replied, an odd segue, as his fingers tightened on the rail.

Starscream snorted. “Honestly, Prime, I’m used to Megatron disappointing me. I wasn’t surprised he couldn’t even do me the courtesy of dying.”

“Mm.” Optimus’ non-committal reply was telling.

“Besides,” Starscream continued as he leaned on the rail next to Optimus. “That speech was almost enough to make up for it.”

“Then you’re not angry he left?”

My, but such pointed questions tonight.

Starscream stared out over his sleeping city. “Everyone leaves, Optimus. The trick is not minding that it hurts.”

He hadn’t meant to admit that aloud, but it was too late to take it back. So Starscream pretended it was on purpose.

“Then that would make you a stronger mech than I am,” Optimus replied and turned away from the rail. “Megatron never deserved you.”

“Of course he didn’t.” Starscream inclined his helm, still curious about Prime’s presence here. “I’m worth more than everything he ever gave me.”

Optimus paused to look back at him, something unfathomable in his optics. “Yes, you are,” he said. “Goodnight, Starscream.”

He watched the Prime leave, still confused. “Goodnight, Prime.”

Starscream’s orbital ridge lowered. It must have been an Autobot thing, to be so cryptic.

How annoying.


	124. Medic Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sentinel Prime/Ratchet  
> Universe: Bayverse, during DoTM  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: implied noncon and slavery  
> Description: Optimus was the only one who celebrated Sentinel's return.

Optimus was the only one glad to see Sentinel Prime alive and well. He missed everyone else’s exchanged looks, how Ironhide was so quick to make himself scarce and Bumblebee vanished faster than you could say ‘advanced scout.’

Ratchet himself didn’t bother. There was nowhere he could hide, nowhere he could escape the calling of his coding, the way it kept tugging him toward the doors behind which Sentinel sat.

He needed privacy, he’d claimed. He needed a moment to get his bearings.

And of course the first one he summoned was Ratchet.

Optimus didn’t know. How could he? Sentinel had been gone by the time he should have learned, and it was one lesson no one was willing to give him.

They liked Optimus. They loved Optimus. They did not want to hate Optimus.

But hating Sentinel?

That was all too easy.

Ratchet felt it building all over again. The disgust. The loathing. The hatred, swelling up within him like a red tide, even as he slid into the hangar Sentinel had claimed and looked up at the massive, old Prime.

“My Ratchet,” Sentinel purred, reaching for him and Ratchet could no more make himself stop than he could refuse.

It wasn’t in his coding.

His plating clamped down tight even as he made his expression neutral. He pulled his energy field in, despite how much he wanted to let his revulsion show. He shuddered on the inside, spark shrinking into a tight ball.

“I should have brought you with me,” Sentinel murmured as he drew Ratchet into his arms, into proximity, against his frame. The heat of him was nauseating. “I never should have denied myself your presence.”

“But then I wouldn’t have been here today to help Optimus wake your broken aft up,” Ratchet retorted because he could at least have this. He had to submit in frame, but Sentinel had always admired his spirit.

Sentinel cupped his face and pressed their forehelms together. “How true, my medic. How true.” His field rolled up and over, swallowing Ratchet whole. “I have missed you so,” he purred.

And it took everything Ratchet had not to purge.


	125. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Orion Pax/Megatronus   
> Universe: TFP AU  
> Warnings: implied slavery, implied forced prostitution  
> Description: They might have taken Orion’s dignity from him, but they could not take his determination.

It was scary how easily he lost himself in Megatronus’ arms. He forgot, in those moments, that he no more belonged to Megatronus than he belonged to himself. That when the on-cycle came, he would have to creep out of Megatronus’ berth and return to the waiting halls.

He would have to smile and flirt and try to coax the next victorious warrior into purchasing his services. As much as Orion wanted it, Megatronus could not monopolize his time. He hadn’t the credits.

Orion tried to banish these thoughts when he was safe in the pleasure of Megatronus’ arms. When the gladiator caged him and held him and thrust into him, always mindful of offering pleasure when no one else bothered.

Orion shivered at the promises Megatronus whispered into his audials. He tried to burst each bubble of hope, but they continued to nestle in his spark.

“We will free ourselves,” Megatronus would murmur as he kissed Orion and stroked him into overload, and held him through the tremors.

Because Megatronus was as much a slave as Orion himself.

“We will have our revenge,” Megatronus assured as he nuzzled against Orion’s intake, his denta lightly scraping, leaving his mark.

Sometimes, it worked. Sometimes, it didn’t. Sometimes, that it worked, went poorly for Orion Pax. Because if the other gladiators were too afraid to purchase him, then he was not making the required credits for his owner.

And there were worse punishments than crawling from tattered berth to dirty berth.

Orion was glad that Megatronus claimed him. But sometimes, that protection was worse than none at all. Yet, he wouldn’t give it up.

He’d fallen this low for love of Megatronus, and he would fall even further if necessary. They were stronger together than they could ever be apart.

They might have taken Orion’s dignity from him, but they could not take his determination. He was not beaten. He was not ruined.

He would return stronger than before. He was sure of it. And Megatronus was too, with every murmured word of praise, and promise of insurrection.

They would be free.


	126. Swan Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Soundwave, Optimus Prime  
> Universe: TFP, pre-series  
> Description: Optimus did not ask for this. Orion does not want it.

He heard nothing, but Orion knew he was no longer alone. He could not be surprised either.

The Council no more liked their new Prime than Orion enjoyed becoming one. Perhaps they thought if they failed to protect him, it would give them an excuse to try again.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” Orion murmured. “He ignores my private messages, but sends his most trusted companion in his stead.”

Silence. Orion had not expected anything less.

He turned to see Soundwave standing behind him, the once bulky gladiator now sadly lithe.

“He should know I did not ask for this, and I don’t want it,” Orion said.

Soundwave approached him and one hand lifted, a slim finger tapping on Orion’s chestplate, right along the central seam.

“I cannot surrender it,” Orion admitted as his armor slid aside and the glow of the matrix filled the space between them. “I tried.”

One thin finger explored without touching, almost as if Soundwave were afraid. He made no attempt to harm Orion, instead drawing back and giving Orion one of his infamously inscrutable looks.

Orion closed his armor and offered a wan smile. “He’ll never forgive me, I know.”

Soundwave’s helm tilted. His visor displayed static. “ _Traitor_ ,” Megatron’s voice hissed, filling all the empty spaces of the Prime Suite.

Orion sighed. “Yes, I know. And it’s too late now.”

Soundwave’s visor cleared. He turned to go, message delivered, but Orion felt he owed one more truth. And even, perhaps, a warning.

“Tell him… goodbye,” Orion said, his spark aching, and it was not entirely from the Matrix. “The next time we meet, Orion will be dead. Do you understand?”

Soundwave nodded and then, he was gone, back to the shadows from whence he came, and no doubt, back to Megatron’s side. Where Orion could no longer be.

Optimus was, once again, alone.


	127. Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ironhide, Mirage  
> Universe: All Hail Megatron  
> Description: Ironhide apologized, but that didn't mean Mirage owed him forgiveness.

He didn’t want to apologize.

Ironhide knew he was wrong, but that didn’t mean he wanted to apologize. He hated admitting he was wrong. He hated that he let his emotions and his fear get the best of him. He hated that he’d taken it out on a fellow Autobot.

He hated knowing that he’d been wrong and he should have been looking closer to home. He hated that he couldn’t even blame Sunstreaker, not really. The kid had been through a lot. He’d never been entirely right in the helm to begin with and then that whole business with the Machination and Hunter? That didn’t help matters.

Ironhide knew he owed Mirage an apology. He just hated that it was necessary. Hated that he’d let himself be consumed by emotion. Hated that he’d done a fellow Autobot wrong.

He sought out Mirage anyway. He offered an apology, and then, he couldn’t blame Mirage for throwing that back into his face. Mirage didn’t owe him forgiveness. The apology had been for Ironhide’s own peace of mind.

He didn’t feel so peaceful. In fact, he felt like slag. He looked at himself and wondered if he even had the right to wear the Autobot badge himself. Decepticons were supposed to turn on each other, not the other way around.

A more belligerent mech would have thrown his hands into the air and called it quits. Would have said he’d done the best he could do.

Ironhide was too old for that slag. He’d done wrong. He’d made a mistake. He’d been blind and he’d hurt someone who didn’t deserve it. He regretted being so quick to judge, to blame. He should not have taken his worry over Optimus out on Mirage.

He started with action. He cut in when he heard other Autobots trying to bad-mouth Mirage. He commissioned a fresh new badge and had it anonymously sent to Mirage, along with a packet of repair nanites and some fresh paint.

And he tried again. He said the hardest thing he’d ever had to say. He told Mirage he’d been wrong. He’d learned from his mistake, but it wasn’t an excuse.

Mirage looked back at him coolly, his armor impeccable, his Autobot symbol rightfully restored, and Ironhide didn’t think for one moment that meant he’d earned forgiveness. But Mirage nodded this time and didn’t respond with vitriol.

He accepted the apology, though he didn’t offer forgiveness. It was a step in the right direction. It was a start.

Right now, Ironhide would take anything he could get, because the guilt was swallowing him whole, and the hardest part, would be forgiving himself.


	128. Rock You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Orion Pax, Megatronus   
> Universe: TFP AU  
> Description: The music was forbidden, but it called to Orion's spark all the same.

Orion plugged into the console and readied the link. He glanced warily over his shoulder, but there was no one else in the Archives to pay him a bit of attention. And if he listened through his datalink rather than through the speakers, perhaps no one would notice.

He cycled a ventilation and opened the message Jazz had forwarded to him. The music had Jazz’s seal of approval, two thumbs up, and he promised that it would get Orion’s spark to hopping.

Such music was forbidden. Orion would lose a week’s worth of pay if he was caught.

But he had to know. He’d heard rumors of this Megatronus, whose vocals could send a surge through a mech’s spark and maybe even make him spontaneously overlord. Orion had heard that he spoke of forbidden things, that he urged his fans to think for themselves and live for the arts.

Orion wanted to hear for himself.

So he clicked the link and braced himself. His optics widened when he realized there was video as well as audio attached. His screen was filled with a dark club, the stage itself lit up with light and flame.

The mech who took center stage was large and silver, his plating giving evidence of a life spent underground. He held an instrument, something Orion could not identify as it looked homemade. The roar of the crowd drowned out his intro, and the moment the first strains of the song poured through the crackling speakers, the crowd got even louder.

Orion felt the beat pulsing through his systems. He wished he could be there, in that crowd, feeling the music with his pedes and his frame. He wished to be surrounded by that noise and life.

And then the mech’s vocals poured out, dark and gritty, a lyrical tirade against the injustice of the society that currently held them down, and Orion’s ventilations caught. His fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the desk.

He watched as Megatronus strutted back and forth across the stage, effortlessly carrying his instrument, his vocals projecting loud and sure. He looked straight into the camera broadcasting his show, his blue optics ablaze with an inner fire.

It felt as though he were singing to Orion himself.

Orion’s vocalizer stalled. And he knew, in that moment, he had to meet this Megatronus, the singer who spoke straight to Orion’s spark.


	129. Read to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: MegatronxTrailcutter  
> Universe: IDW, MTMTE Season Two  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Trailcutter felt more comfortable in the arms of a former Decepticon warlord than anywhere else.

There was something soothing about the sound of Megatron’s voice. If Trailcutter blocked out all else about what Megatron had been and focused only on that dark, rumbling cadence, something in Trailcutter’s spark settled.

It didn’t matter what Megatron said, only that he continued to speak. Trailcutter’s engine purred as he lay on the berth, his helm on Megatron’s thigh. He listened to the once-warlord read off an old folktale from oft-forgotten Cybertronian lore. The story itself wasn’t interesting, but Megatron could read off a list of comm codes, and Trailcutter would be satisfied.

“Am I causing you to sleep?” Megatron asked, amusement rich in his vocals.

Trailcutter hadn’t even realized he’d shuttered his optics. “No. I'm… immersing myself.”

“Is that so?” Megatron’s hand rested on his head, thumb stroking Trailcutter’s cheek.

Trailcutter should’ve been afraid. He wasn’t. Maybe that should bother him, too. It didn’t.

He hummed an affirmative. “The story is very–”

“–tedious?” Megatron supplied dryly. “Yes, I think so, too. Only someone like Cyclonus could truly appreciate these, I think.”

Trailcutter chuckled and looked up at the former Decepticon who had somehow become his berthmate in a short amount of time. He still didn’t know what to think about that.

“Probably so.” He turned his face toward Megatron’s palm. “Maybe we could find other ways to entertain ourselves then.”

Megatron leaned over him, all warm mass and intoxicating words. “I suppose I could think of something,” he said, promise in his crimson optics.

They kissed.

That should’ve alarmed Trailcutter, too. Sometimes, he even wondered what it meant, that he felt more himself than he ever did, in the arms of the worst murderer Cybertron had ever seen.

And then that thought passed and he curled further into Megatron’s arms. Because Megatron had looked at him and seen something worth salvaging, and for that, Trailcutter would ignore everything else.


	130. Oblivious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet, Perceptor   
> Universe: IDW, MTMTE Season One  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Ratchet is a little oblivious when it comes to flirtatious behavior.

It took a month of almost tripping over Perceptor every time he turned around before Ratchet realized that it was because Perceptor had been a near-constant presence as of late.

And then Ratchet facepalmed because he’d been so blind that he hadn’t noticed Perceptor casually inviting him to share drinks in Swerve’s bar, or popping up when Ratchet least expected with an invitation to play a game or have a quiet night in.

He hadn’t realized how out of the loop he was until he realized that Perceptor’s soft smiles and more confident invitations had been his idea of flirting. And then Ratchet felt like an idiot for not noticing sooner.

So the next time Perceptor swung by the medbay, offering to look at one of the malfunctioning pieces of equipment that Ratchet could have repaired himself, Ratchet decided to be proactive.

“The other day you asked me if I wanted to get a drink,” Ratchet said as Perceptor peered at the damaged component. “Is that invitation still open?”

Perceptor paused and looked at him, helm tilted, reticular optic inscrutable. “I never rescinded the offer,” he said with a curve of his lips. “Though I was under the impression you are eternally… shall I say, occupied?”

Ratchet barked a laugh and shook his helm. “More like I’m an idiot. You could have said something sooner, Perceptor.”

The scientist set down the component and faced Ratchet fully, reminding him that they were of a height and mass. Which was kind of nice actually.

“I should have,” Perceptor admitted and it was with a little laugh. “But you have to admit, Ratchet, you can be quite intimidating sometimes.”

“I do that on purpose, you know,” Ratchet grumbled, though it was with humor and not true irritation. “These misbehaving fools constantly getting themselves into trouble. How else am I going to convince them to think before they act?”

Perceptor chuckled. “How true.” He paused and gave Ratchet a longer look. “About that drink… is now an acceptable time for you?”

“Aid has been harping on me to take a break every now and again.” Ratchet tilted his helm toward the door. “Let’s go. I think we both could use it.”

Perceptor’s grin only proved that Ratchet had made the right choice.


	131. Good Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Mystery/Sunstreaker  
> Universe:  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: bdsm themes  
> Description: Sunstreaker was a good boy. It was so much easier when Master told him what to do.

“Open.”

He knew this game. He loved this game.

Sunstreaker’s engine purred as he tilted his helm back, parted his lips, and stuck out his glossa. He looked up at his master with adoration, waiting patiently for the sweet energon treat to be placed on his glossa.

He hummed gratefully as the small cube landed on the tip of his glossa, but he knew better than to eagerly gulp it down. He waited for his Master’s permission, waited for the nod of approval.

“Good boy,” his Master said, stroking a finger down the tip of his olfactory sensor. “You may swallow.”

Sunstreaker shivered as he drew his glossa into his mouth and closed his lips around the treat. The sweet and tart flavor melted across his glossa, down his intake, and into his tank. It glowed there warmly, and his engine purred all the stronger. His hands kneaded at the floor. His optics shuttered.

Master’s hand cupped his helm and Sunstreaker turned into it. Warmth flooded his entire frame. His spark throbbed with it.

“You are so obedient,” Master told him, his words ringing through Sunstreaker’s audials like the finest song. “You have come so far, pet. I am proud of you.”

Sunstreaker made a noise, it didn’t qualify as a word, and nudged his helm harder into Master’s touch. He wanted to crawl into Master’s lap and stay there, but he hadn’t been given permission. And he was a good boy, he was a good pet. He wanted to keep it that way.

It was so much easier when Master told him what to do. Sunstreaker didn’t want to lose that.

Master’s thumb stroked over his bottom lip. Sunstreaker knew what to do here, too.

He opened his mouth, let Master’s thumb slide inside. Let it push down on his glossa, trace over his denta, let Master do whatever he wanted.

Because Sunstreaker was obedient and he was happy to be so.

“Beautiful,” Master murmured, his ventilations getting sharper and faster. The fingers of his free hand teased at Sunstreaker’s helm vents. “Beautiful and all mine.”

Sunstreaker moaned, oral lubricant dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

Yes. He belonged to Master.

There was nowhere else he’d rather be.


	132. Winners and Losers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron, Starscream  
> Universe: IDW, post-Dark Cybertron  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: It was time that Starscream left failure in the past where it belonged.

He’d had to bribe three guards for this opportunity and convince a fourth to disable the audio recording.

Starscream didn’t care if anyone knew he’d come here. But he didn’t want anyone to know why. Let them assume the obvious.

The sight of Megatron behind bars provided him much joy. The shackles were a charming bonus. That the cell was a touch too small, a shade beyond comfortable, filled Starscream with a quiet glee.

And yet, he had not come here with the purpose of mocking his once great leader.

“Go away, Starscream.”

The fragger’s back was to the bars, but somehow, he’d known who had come to visit.

“All these millennia together and you still won’t listen to what I have to say?”

“In all those millennia, you never had anything of worth to offer.” Megatron stood, hydraulics creaking, his frame new but carrying the weight of years. “You’ve had your podium. What do you want?”

Starscream tilted his helm. “Don’t think I’ll forget that it was my speech that changed your mind, worthless though my words are.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “What. Do. You. Want?”

A pity. He used to be more entertaining.

“A moment of your time, that is, if you’re not too busy picking up the shredded remnants of your pride.”

Starscream grinned. He’d seen the speech Optimus Prime had written for Megatron. He hadn’t known Optimus could be so cruel. Where had he learned such tactics?

But that was beside the point. Megatron had ignored his pointed statement. His glare was hot enough to singe paint.

“Then since I have your attention, I’ll say what I’ve come to say.” Starscream folded his arms behind his back. “I suppose I can’t blame you for your cowardice.”

He eyed Megatron, caught the ripple that rolled across his armor, and the growl that echoed in his chassis.

Starscream smirked and continued, “I mean, dying ends the game, yes? So I want you to know that I forgive you for becoming what you are.” He turned, slanting Megatron a sideways look. “There’s a little traitor in all of us, I suppose.”

Ventilations whirred. Oo, if there weren’t bars between them! Starscream was certain Megatron longed to visit violence upon him.

“Is that all?” Megatron growled.

“It’s more than you deserve,” Starscream said as he turned to face the once mighty warrior. “Enjoy your trip, Master. You won’t be missed.”

“You won’t hold their loyalty long, Starscream. What will you do then?”

He turned, giving Megatron his back. “Unlike you, I think further ahead than the next battle. At least, I won’t be remembered as the loser in this game.”

Ah. It had turned into mockery after all. Oops.

“Starscream.” He paused at the exit, Megatron’s gaze heavy between his wings.

“I didn’t lose the game,” Megatron said. “I just didn’t win. Remember that.”

Starscream frowned. Touche.

He had no ready retort. He opted for silence instead, something which had always unnerved Megatron and forced explosions of anger in the past.

Besides, Megatron was the one in a cage. Starscream had a planet to rebuild.

It was time he left failure in the past where it belonged.


	133. Professional Courtesy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Rung/Smokescreen  
> Universe: IDW MTMTE  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: mentions of BDSM themes  
> Description: Rung has the unique ability to be forgotten. Smokescreen is a mech trained to be remembered.

Every action has a meaning. Every word has a secret message. Every smile, every laugh, every coy glance, flirtatious wink and furious scowl…

Actions are roadmaps of behavioral origins. And once you know how to read the legend, it’s impossible to get lost. And impossible to forget.

Smokescreen knows it’s creepy. He knows that moment of realization when a casual conversation turns guarded. When a friend treats you like an enemy because everything has meaning.

He picked the Lost Light because no one on the roster knows who he used to be. Or if they do – like Ultra Magnus – they keep their silence. Or, like Rung, recognize his reasons.

Rung, however, takes pride where Smokescreen stays in the shadows. Then again, Rung has the unique ability to be forgotten. Smokescreen is a mech trained to be remembered.

Having Rung around is a relief, admittedly. Smokescreen can be himself around the therapist like he can no one else. They share a professional courtesy and sometimes, it’s almost a game. To see who has the better mask.

Rung usually wins. Smokescreen thinks it’s because the glasses give him an edge. That and Rung’s been around for so long he has more life experience to draw from.

He always takes his victories in stride, but Smokescreen can read the pride behind his humble bow. There’s a wicked humor within Rung, one that few give him credit for, but one Smokescreen enjoys witnessing.

He’s a clever mech, and a strong one, and Smokescreen often wonders what it would have been like to watch he and Froid, in their heyday, debate the finer points of psychotherapy.

Still… there’s a reason Smokescreen knocks on Rung’s habsuite door once a week, and it’s not just to play the game.

It’s because Rung understands. And for Smokescreen, there’s nothing more valuable than the welcome in Rung’s field and the genuine smile on his face.

His nimble fingers and creative toys? Those are just a charming bonus. One Smokescreen enjoys quite thoroughly when he’s lashed down to Rung’s berth and begging for mercy, with that cultured smirk directed toward him. Unguarded blue optics shimmer at him in promise.

“I won’t break you,” Rung purrs. “At least, not any more than you want me to.”

Better that Smokescreen can trust him. More, even, than he can trust himself.


	134. Steady Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Krok, Spinister  
> Universe: IDW, MTMTE  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: His world is spinning, but Krok is there to talk him through it.

He can’t ventilate.

His fingers are shaking. His knees are wobbling. There aren’t any errors on his HUD, but he’s quite sure something is wrong.

His spark flares and flickers. His helm aches. His vision’s on the fritz. There’s static in his audials. He doesn’t know what it is.

He needs to get away– go away. He needs– needs–

“Spinister?”

Hand on his arm.

He whirls, bats it away, draws his blaster, shouts “don’t touch me!” and snarls as his world spins and spins.

It’s Krok. Click-click. No. No click. Eerie silence.

Krok holds up his hands. Backs off. His optics gleam. He's… worried?

Spinister can sense it in his field.

“Just… go away,” Spinister growls and ow, ow, ow, he didn’t really mean it. His helm hurts. He’s overheating. It’s too hot. It’s too–

“It’s just me here,” Krok says and Spinister blinks.

He’s right. The noise is gone. Crankcase isn’t complaining. Grimlock and Misfire aren’t playing their game. Fulcrum’s on watch where he should be. It's… quieter.

Heat flushes to ice. He’s shivering. His plating is rattling. His fingers are still trembling and he's… pointing his blaster at Krok? Slag. That’s not good.

“You want to sit down?” Krok asks.

And sitting. Yes. Sitting is good.

Spinister drops back down into his chair. His knees are grateful. He remembers to stow his blaster.

Krok finally lowers his hands. “I’ve got some midgrade in my subspace. You want it?”

“Don’t need fuel,” Spinister bites out. His vision is spotty. Audio sensors still glitching.

But it’s quiet.

Krok moves slowly, carefully. He sits next to Spinister, out of reach of all but his field. He doesn’t even stare, not directly.

Spinister cycles a rattling vent. “You could… talk?” He suggests. His fingers rap on the table – jerky, uncoordinated.

“Okay,” Krok says. “I’ll talk.”

He launches into a story. Something ridiculous and boring, but there’s a cadence, a rhythm. One Spinister can focus on, match his sparkbeats to.

And it’s good.

Spinister dims his optics.

Yeah, it’s good.


	135. Don't Get Caught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Don't Get Caught  
> Characters: Bumblebee/Thundercracker  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: He crept into the night, to their established rendezvous, and never regretted his choice.

It wasn’t a blessing, just a warning.

“Don’t get caught,” Jazz had said. He’d given Bee a knowing look and then turned the other direction, giving Bumblebee his back, all but giving him permission.

Bumblebee had taken it. He’d crept into the night, to their established rendezvous, and waited, jumping at every sound, every breath of wind.

It was worth it, totally worth it.

Because sometimes it felt like the war would never be over. So he wanted this tiny little bit of peace for himself. He and a former Decepticon who still called himself a Decepticon, who had betrayed his comrades because he couldn’t betray himself.

They didn’t talk much. Words could be misconstrued and mistaken. Words could cause offense. It was easier to keep simple.

Questions and answers.

Are you ready?

Yes.

Are you sure?

Yes.

And away they would go, Bumblebee lifted up in a Seeker’s arms to where he could so briefly experience the thrill of flight, until they could go somewhere secluded. Somewhere there wasn’t a war or the growing threat of the humans. Somewhere it was just the two of them, the press of their frames together, heat and crackling energy.

They kept words to a minimum.

All that mattered was the weight of Thundercracker’s hands on his frame or the slide of Bumblebee’s fingers into the Seeker’s seams. He liked to listen to the powerful roar of Thundercracker’s engines, as much as Thundercracker enjoyed them laying together, and listening to Bee’s own systems purr.

Going their separate ways was the worst part.

Thundercracker was exiled to solitude, constantly fleeing the humans that might do him harm.

Bumblebee returned to his friends, to the Autobots, wondering why he felt increasingly the outsider, and wondering if he was the only one who felt that way.

Jazz remained the only one who knew. He never said anything when Bumblebee came creeping back to base, carrying the scent of satisfaction and overload. But the look in Jazz’s visor said all he needed to say.

“Just don’t get caught.”


	136. Miscalculation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Miscalculation   
> Characters: Star Saber, Tarn, Deathsaurus  
> Universe: IDW, MTMTE  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: dark themes  
> Description: A teleporting mistake lands Star Saber strut-deep in some serious trouble.

This was a mistake.

That was the last thought that crossed Star Saber’s processor before he was engulfed in an intangible pain, and he collapsed to the decking beneath him. His entire frame twitched with lingering agony, and his visual feed fritzed. Stasis called to him, his frame yearning for it.

As he slipped toward the black, shadows bent down over him. One was a Decepticon, the badge his face, one Star Saber had heard rumor of, but did not believe existed. The other was bestial. An abomination.

And then there was darkness.

Though he felt he blinked and onlined to light. Something so bright it was blinding. He tried to turn his helm away and found that he couldn’t move. He’d been shackled down, wrists and ankles and abdomen and even a strap across his helm. He rebooted his sensory suite and his vision clarified.

The faces were still there.

“–can make use of him,” one was saying.

“The question, my dear Deathsaurus, is whether or not we want to,” the other purred, and something in his vocals stirred Star Saber’s spark.

A wave of pleasure cascaded through his frame, his circuits aching at the abrupt shift from agony to pleasure.

“I’m of the mind that we don’t waste a potential resource.”

“Very well.” The Decepticon badge leaned closer, crimson optics gleaming behind it. “Then let me see what I can do.”

The other clapped him on the shoulder and smirked. “I trust your judgment, Tarn.”

Star Saber’s spark throbbed. His entire frame wrenched in his restraints. Bright spots danced in his visual feed.

This was a mistake, he realized, as his vocalizer locked down on him and his backstrut arched against the restraints.

Primus save him.


	137. Cultural Differences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Cultural Differences  
> Characters: Chip Chase, Autobot Ensemble  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Chip makes several observations and includes that Cybertronians are just plain odd.

Cybertronians were weird. Even for aliens, they were pretty weird.

Chip should know. He’d spent enough time around them to pick out a few of their quirks and idiosyncrasies. They tried to hide them in their efforts to blend in, but Chip’s paid attention.

Like take Ratchet and First Aid and Hoist for instance.

Chip’s spent a good deal of time in the medbay because it’s safer to hang out there and chat then it is to do so in Wheeljack’s laboratory, and medics are weird. They had this odd thing where they won’t touch either other’s hands. Instead of shaking hands or high-fiving each other, they’ll knock their forearms together. It’s seen as congratulatory or celebratory.

Chip asked once, and Ratchet said something about it being poor form for medics to touch other medic’s hands because of how important they were. But he couldn’t explain why a medic had no problem shaking hands with a warrior or an engineer.

And then there were the soldiers like Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, or Smokescreen or Bluestreak, those with alt-modes that could be used for racing, or modified for said use like the case of the Datsuns.

They revved their engines when they saw each other. Yeah, the twins were more aggressive than the others and Bluestreak sounded oddly cute when he did it, but still. They all did it to greet each other. Even Red Alert!

It was a perfunctory rev, as though it annoyed him to participate in this act, but he still did it.

Honestly though, it was the minibots who were the weirdest.

They would, out of nowhere, climb into the lap of a bigger bot, and make themselves at home. Sometimes, they’d curl up and go to recharge. Other times, they’d sit there and purr their engine, like a cat requesting attention.

And the weirdest parts?

The bigger bot would do it! They’d stroke the minibot’s helm, or down their back, or pat them on the knee. They wouldn’t say anything, or act like they even noticed what they were doing. As though it was a purely automatic reaction.

Even Cliffjumper would do it! And even the rough and tumble bots like Ironhide or Inferno, they’d just get this sappy look on their face and start petting whichever minibot crawled into their lap. The whole room would be filled with the sound of purring engines and contentment.

It was like a gaggle of minibots had wandered in and tamed the Autobots’ fiercest warriors.

The icing on the cake, though, was when Chip saw Seaspray crawl into Sunstreaker’s lap. Chip had held his breath, half-expecting for there to be bloodshed. But apparently, this was a common occurrence because Sunstreaker’s hand went to a spot that caused Seaspray to melt across his lap and instantly fall into recharge.

And that sealed it for Chip.

Cybertronians were weird.


	138. Never Look Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus/Skyfire   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Optimus and Skyfire share a quiet moment on the roof of the Ark.

Stumbling upon Optimus Prime staring soulfully out into the night sky was the last thing Skyfire expected when he retreated to the apex of the volcano that the Ark called home. He thought he was the only who came up here, even amongst the other flyers, but there was no mistaking that tall frame and those familiar colors.

He looked like a statue. Something to inspire and admire. He was proud and strong. His gaze focused on the distance.

But mostly… he looked lonely.

Skyfire coughed a ventilation to announce himself and popped his thrusters to complete the rest of his ascent. He might not have been as graceful as Starscream, but he could manage a decent landing without tumbling from the mountaintop.

“Good evening, sir,” Skyfire said with a smile as Optimus turned to acknowledge him. “It’s a beautiful night for stargazing.”

“That it is.” Optimus’ optics brightened, his field reaching for Skyfire with warmth and welcome, without a trace of disappointment in it. “I keep thinking if I look hard enough, I might see Cybertron, despite knowing otherwise.”

Skyfire came to a rest beside the Prime, but then lowered himself to sit. This way, for once, he would have to look up to a mech. “I find myself doing the same,” he admitted. “But no matter how many calculations I’ve done, I am still disappointed.”

“Because it isn’t there?”

“Because we are still too close for me to see the past,” Skyfire said with a little sigh. “If I could go further, if I could travel faster, I might be able to see Cybertron as it was. But I wasn’t in stasis long enough to have that mercy now.”

Optimus inclined his helm in understanding and rested a hand on Skyfire’s shoulder, a chaste touch but one that spoke a wealth of comfort. “Do you ever wish Starscream had not found you?”

“More often than I’d like to admit.” Skyfire’s spark squeezed tightly. He cycled a ventilation to hide the sharp stab of pain in his field. “There is nothing familiar to me here. Not even the echoes of the past.”

Optimus squeezed again and then lowered himself to sit next to Skyfire. Their thighs touched and somehow, that light brush was a source of comfort as well. “And it is a greater pain to see Cybertron as it is now. I am sorry for that, Skyfire.”

He sighed. “You did what you had to do. I can’t blame you for that. The onus is on me to accept that this is my life now.” As unappealing as it might be.

“Even so, you are a stranger in a strange land. I can understand that pain.” Something in Optimus’ vocals darkened, turning to grief. His helm tilted, his gaze shifting to the sky. “Once upon a time, a lowly dockworker named Orion Pax used to do this very same thing we are doing now. Looking above and imagining what else was out in the stars.”

Skyfire smiled a little himself. “It is kind of peaceful, isn’t it?”

“Very much. I can see why you come here so often.”

Skyfire startled and swung a look toward his Prime. “You noticed?” Skyfire often felt he went unnoticed if they didn’t have need of him for their air taxi, so this was a huge surprise. But a welcome one.

“I do pay attention.” Optimus Prime’s battle mask slid open, revealing the gentle smile he had underneath. “I hope you don’t mind that I keep you company.”

Skyfire felt his faceplate heat. He ducked his helm. 

“No,” he said. “I don’t mind at all.”


	139. Love and Hate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus Prime   
> Universe: IDW, post-Combiner Wars  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: potentially dark themes  
> Description: Optimus, a sleepless night, and many, many regrets.

Prowl was right.

But then, wasn’t he always?

Optimus did not recharge. And if he did, it was fitfully. Cybertronians did not dream, yet he found his recharge haunted by nightmares. Memory purges. He wasn’t sure, anymore, if they were real or imagined.

Prowl was chief among them.

Where Megatron had once ruled his thoughts, there was now only his former second, his former chief tactician, his former friend.

Optimus tossed and turned.

Prowl’s voice haunted him. Prowl’s laugh, rare though it was. Prowl’s touch, simultaneously reverent and dismissive.

Optimus saw himself as Prowl did, in numbers and calculations, and he feared that was how Prowl had always seen him. Were those special moments calculated, too?

When did he stop trusting Prowl? When did he turn his back on a friend he’d known longer than war? When did he give more weight to Megatron?

Optimus did not recharge. For when he slept, he dreamt of Prowl. His spark ached. The empty core of the Matrix flexed and trembled. He was chastised for his failures, so many. No member of Optimus Maximus haunted him as thoroughly as Prowl did.

Ironhide. Mirage. Sunstreaker. They had their own issues, their own disagreements. They’d come to terms with each other.

Ironhide was there, a never-wavering support. Mirage and Sunstreaker did not know any better.

But Prowl’s accusations were like a thermite fire along his internals. In his recharge, Optimus burned and he regretted.

He stared down at his dented hands, swearing that Prowl’s energon still tainted his knuckles. He felt it, again and again, his fists impacting Prowl’s face. He remembered his own rage. At himself. At Prowl.

_I hate you. And then I love you. It’s like I want to throw you off a cliff, and then rush to the bottom to catch you._

Human quote. Human words. They were so apt. They encapsulated everything Optimus felt about Prowl.

Hate. Love. Respect. Disdain.

He tossed and turned. Recharge did not come to him.

Prowl’s smile mingled with a smirk, an energon-soaked sneer.

Optimus regretted. He regretted so very much. An apology would not be enough. He wasn’t sure he ought to give one.

How did we get this far?

Optimus couldn’t hate Prowl anymore than he loathed himself.

He did not recharge.

Perhaps it was for the best.


	140. Hold Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jazz/Ratchet  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: battle-typical gore  
> Description: Ratchet had lost enough during the war. He’d be damned if he lost Jazz, too.

“Jazz is down. I repeat: Jazz is down!”

Ratchet was on his pedes and roaring across the battlefield before he’d fully processed the report, well aware that he was responding on instinct more than rationality.

He heard, vaguely, Prowl shouting at him. He heard First Aid telling him that he was closer. He heard Hoist mutter something about it being not that serious.

Ratchet heard all three and dismissed them.

He leapt over embankments, ducked to avoid enemy fire, and skidded down into an impact crater. Jazz was on his hands and knees, struggling to rise, energon dripping down from multiple shrapnel wounds. He was shaking his helm, disoriented. How he’d gotten hit, Ratchet didn’t know.

“You fragger,” Ratchet snarled as he slid to a halt beside his lover. “Thought you were faster than that.”

Jazz grinned up at him, energon dribbling from his lip. “So did I.”

A Decepticon appeared on the lip of the crater. Ratchet’s blaster leapt to his hands, and he fired without thinking. He could have been a sniper, if his medical skills weren’t of more use. The Decepticon tumbled down, a smoking hole in his chassis.

Ratchet’s medical coding writhed within him. It was one death of many staining his hands. The day when he stood before Primus would be the most shameful of his entire functioning. If Primus even existed.

“Stay down!” Ratchet barked. “I have to get these patched. Stop trying to move. You’re making it worse.”

Hoist was right. It was survivable. But the growing pool of energon and was that coolant? – frag, it was coolant – beneath Jazz seemed to indicate otherwise to the untrained optic.

“Ya have such a way with words, Ratch,” Jazz said, but at least he obeyed, though whether it was by choice or because his frame wouldn’t sustain him anymore, Ratchet didn’t know.

Prowl was still shouting at him.

Ratchet quietly but firmly turned down the volume. There were other medics. Prime was safe. No one else was critical.

He’d lost enough during the war. He’d be damned if he lost Jazz, too.

“Knew ya loved me,” Jazz said, his vocalizer crackling.

Ratchet didn’t spare him a look, not right now. He was too focused on the shrapnel. “Damn right, I do,” he said. “Now hold still.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Jazz’s hand reached out, tapping against his shoulder, a bare brush of their fields exchanging affection between them.

That was all that needed to be said.


	141. Make Us Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Sunstreaker, Sideswipe  
> Universe: Shattered Glass  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: dark themes, implied noncon  
> Description: He escaped. He’s supposed to be safe. Megatron promised.

He onlines in a med bay with the thick stench of scorched wires and metal sharp on his glossa. His audials ring. His optics are full of static.

This is not Knock Out’s medbay. It is dank and dim and while the surgical instruments nearby gleam, they look as though they are derived from Sideswipe’s worst nightmare.

No. Oh, Primus, no.

He knows where he is.

Sideswipe thrashes. The gurney rattles. He’s lashed down. No, he’s bolted, he realizes with greater alarm. Through his wrists and ankles and elbows and knees. There’s no pain because those sensors have been blocked.

It’s not a mercy. It’s because they want to see his agony in person.

No!

He’s supposed to be free! He escaped! He’s supposed to be safe! Megatron promised!

Sideswipe panics. Fear rises in his intake like ill-processed energon. His spark flares.

His spark. He can see his spark!

They’ve jimmied his chestplate open until only the transsteel of his inner-most casing remains closed. They intend to finish what they started when Sideswipe first made his mistake.

This time, there’s no one to save him.

A door swooshes open. Sideswipe freezes. There are two sets of footprints. Sideswipe doesn’t have to look to know who they are: his nightmare.

“Look who’s finally back,” Sunstreaker purrs as fingers trail over his sensory horns before Sideswipe can even see the perpetrator.

“And just in time to make us whole,” Ratchet agrees as another touch rests over Sideswipe’s barely guarded spark. “The ungrateful wretch.”

“Please,” Sideswipe begs as he forces his optics into a reboot and his vision clarifies, letting him see Ratchet looking over him, grinning. “Don’t do this.” He can see his spark flickering with distress.

“Awww, he’s nervous,” Sunstreaker croons.

“Don’t worry. That’s a perfectly normal reaction,” Ratchet chuckles as he lays his hand flat over Sideswipe’s spark. “All mechs get cold sparks before they bond, right?”

“But there’s no reason to be anxious, brother,” Sunstreaker purrs in his audial. “You’re back where you belong. With us.” His lips slide over Sideswipe’s cheek, a gross parody of affection.

Sideswipe offlines his optics. He doesn’t want to see what’s coming.

He bites back a sob. Nothing and no one.

Primus save him.


	142. Is That My Voice?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus Prime, Autobot Ensemble, Decepticon Ensemble  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Ratchet promised he’d fix Optimus’ vocalizer as soon as he could. For poor Optimus, it wouldn’t come soon enough.

Bad enough that he had his own Autobots giving him second looks and being slow to respond to his commands, now he had Decepticons looking at him funny, as though he’d been replaced when they weren’t looking.

Ratchet promised he’d fix Optimus’ vocalizer as soon as he could. For poor Optimus, it wouldn’t come soon enough.

He’d gotten tired of repeating his override code to Teletraan, only to be locked out of the system when the super-computer remained unconvinced of his identity.

He didn’t like Red Alert jumping when Optimus spoke, because his recognition protocols kept stalling at the sound of Optimus’ voice. Especially when the one he was using was borrowed from an Autobot long dead.

Red Alert wouldn’t stop muttering about ghosts. And Ratchet told Optimus he’d remove his vocalizer entirely if Optimus didn’t stop surprising Red Alert.

Needless to say, he’d routed all conversations with Red Alert through Jazz or Smokescreen for the time being.

Worst of all, however, was how often he startled himself when he spoke. It was so jarring, when the voice you had known for thousands of years, was different. He didn’t recognize himself and it was quite disconcerting.

So when the alarm sounded, calling the Autobots to battle, Optimus was relieved. It was something familiar. Something that would help take his mind off the looks, of both confusion and disappointment. And if his pre-battle speech was not as rousing as usual, well, Optimus blamed that on the temporary vocalizer, too.

He rushed into battle with a roar, determined to protect the humans and drive Megatron away. If he was lucky, by the time he returned, Ratchet would have worked a miracle.

“Megatron!” Optimus shouted as he pounded across the battlefield. “Cease this mindless pillaging at once!”

And Megatron?

He didn’t even turn to acknowledge Optimus’ presence. He fired a shot in Optimus’ general direction and continued to direct his troops as though Optimus wasn’t worth his time.

He didn’t even bother to check and see if that unfamiliar voice was a threat. It would have been amusing, if it hadn’t been an irritation compounding on top of irritations that Optimus had dealt with.

Optimus refused to be ignored.

He easily dodged the offhand shot and barreled his way toward Megatron. He shouted and that was all the warning Megatron received before Optimus tackled him from the side and to the ground.

“Who… Optimus Prime!?” Megatron shoved a fist toward him, his field rippling with surprise. “Where did you come from?”

“I am always here, Megatron. Just when you least expect it,” Optimus said as he jerked a knee toward Megatron’s mid-section and they grappled like schoolyard children.

“What the frag is wrong with your voice?” Megatron demanded, sounding horrified. “You, you’re not Optimus Prime! You’re a fake! A decoy!” Megatron snarled as though personally offended. “They dare taunt me with a false Prime!”

The whine of his fusion cannon powering up echoed through the air. And Optimus cycled a sigh.

This wasn’t going to be pretty.

Ratchet better get that damn part fixed soon.


	143. The Art of Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Bluestreak, Ensemble  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Bluestreak knew fear. And what he’d seen in Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s optics had been sheer, unadulterated terror.

It was funny at first.

There wasn’t a mech on the Ark who hadn’t been a victim of one of Sideswipe’s pranks at one point or another. And most had once been party to one of Sunstreaker’s sharp verbal lashings or even faster punches to the face. The Twins could be hard to like. They cultivated that on purpose because they were so insular.

So when Sunstreaker froze in the face of danger and Sideswipe turned tail and ran the other direction, dragging his brother with him, well, many Autobots laughed. It was kind of ridiculous, wasn’t it? The Terror Twins afraid of something the Decepticons could cook up? They laughed in the face of freefalling to their death.

But this? This scared them? Scared them enough that they hid in their room and wouldn’t come out or answer the door? Primus only knew how they were getting their energon because no one had seen them in the rec room. Not even Ratchet could get them to come out.

Some said it was because they were embarrassed. But Bluestreak wasn’t so sure. He’d seen Sideswipe shrug off embarrassment before. And Sunstreaker never let himself get embarrassed by anything, not even his brother’s antics.

Bluestreak knew fear. He fought fear every night in his recharge. He battled intangible monsters and woke up scarred. And what he’d seen in Sideswipe and Sunstreaker’s optics had been sheer, unadulterated terror.

Once he realized that, it was a lot less funny.

He told everyone else that much, at least those that would listen to him. But once people stopped laughing and paid attention to what he was saying, realization dawned in them, too. It spread quickly. That was one thing about the Autobots and the Ark, rumor and gossip spread like wildfire.

Some refused to listen. They remained stubborn. Probably cause they didn’t want to admit they were wrong, or the idea of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe having a weakness, a genuine fear, unsettled them. It was easy to laugh at two mechs who were hard to like. A lot easier than understanding where they were coming from.

Come to think of it, that was probably why the war had lasted for so long and kept continuing. It was a lot easier to hate than it was to understand the other side.

But that was something else to think about.

Right now, Bluestreak just wanted his friends to know they weren’t alone. He wanted Sideswipe and Sunstreaker to know it was safe to come out of their quarters. That they didn’t have to cry out in fear and deal with it on their own. Because Bluestreak had been there and he knew how much it hurt.

With Jazz’s help, Bluestreak organized a show of support. He didn’t know if it would encourage Sideswipe and Sunstreaker to come out, but he was determined to try. It was the effort that mattered. Because if they didn’t stand up for each other, who would?

They were Autobots, weren’t they?


	144. Father Figure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron, Soundwave, Ravage, Laserbeak, Rumble, Frenzy  
> Universe: TFP  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Megatron’s other soldiers never fully understood why he treated the symbiotes differently.

He wasn’t entirely sure when he started or why, but it seemed too cruel to stop for no reason at all. Especially when there was such a positive benefit and double-especially since Soundwave approved.

A well-placed word of praise caused Frenzy and Rumble to beam brightly at him. They jostled each other with their elbows, but there was no mistaking the flush of pride in their fields.

They had gone from a pair of troublemakers to a set of dangerous weapons who couldn’t be compromised. And all it had taken was a few kind words and encouragement, something they had both earned.

They still needed discipline from time to time. They were as younglings, playful and unfocused. But a stern look from Megatron was generally all it took to obtain good behavior.

Ravage preferred trust, to sit at Megatron’s side and hold a conversation. Ravage did not need praise; she was already confident. She needed and wanted to be seen as a person, acknowledged as an equal. For that, Megatron earned her loyalty and her confidence.

Laserbeak was happy for a perch on his shoulder, and a sip of Megatron’s potent high grade. Though Megatron wasn’t sure that ‘sip’ was the right word. Laserbeak could drink any full-grown mech under the table.

She had earned her place on Megatron’s shoulder. She welcomed praise like her brothers, her field thick with pride. Sometimes, she even chose Megatron over Soundwave, something he found greatly amusing.

Soundwave had given him a curious look at the time. And then later, he came to Megatron with a request, one that both surprised and honored Megatron.

If anything should happen, Soundwave asked that Megatron look after his symbiotes. That they trusted Megatron with their well-being, and Soundwave would relax knowing that they were in good hands.

Megatron accepted. It was hardly a burden. They were fine Decepticons.

Megatron’s other soldiers never fully understood why he treated the symbiotes differently. It was impossible to explain in terms they would recognize. But at least they knew better than to direct their jealousies toward them. Soundwave was scary.

But Megatron, with a single smirk that bared his sharpened denta, was much scarier than Soundwave could ever hope to be. They left the symbiotes alone.


	145. Iron Chef Megatron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron, Knock Out, Shockwave, Skywarp, Starscream  
> Universe: AU  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: An engine malfunction requires the Decepticons to consider different methods to raise the funds needed to fix it.

“I am confused,” Megatron said as he paced in front of the long table, his hands clasped behind his back. “Which part of my orders were unclear?”

Half of his Decepticons squirmed where they stood. The other half returned his gaze, completely unconcerned.

“We require these treats to procure the funds we need to restock and refuel before we can leave this miserable excuse for a planet,” Megatron continued, his engine growling as his optics narrowed. “So when I commanded that you create something that would sell, I did not expect such utter and complete failure.”

“Lord Megatron, I object–”

“Do not test me, Knock Out,” Megatron said as he stopped in front of Knock Out’s offering and looked down at an energon so pale it lacked color. “Given what you’ve brought today.”

Knock Out claimed it was high grade. But it lacked both odor and color and taste. Megatron might as well have been drinking air.

Knock Out folded his arms over his chestplate. “It is a high-powered blend, my lord,” he said with a lifted chin. “It is meant for only the finest of palates.”

“Right,” Megatron drawled. “Palates so fine they don’t exist.”

He snorted and moved on to the next offering, which happened to be Shockwave’s. Here was one failure that Megatron had not expected. But the thing clumped together on a plate resembled a noxious, offensive ooze.

It was yellow. Why was it yellow?

Megatron squinted.

Yellow was the single most unappealing color for consumables in the universe.

“Are you serious?” Megatron asked.

“It contains every nutrition a growing biomechanical might need for optimum maturation,” Shockwave said.

Megatron didn’t want to sniff it. He didn’t want to touch it. He certainly didn’t want to taste it.

“So you’ve created the Cybertronian equivalent of medical grade energon and called it candy?” Megatron demanded.

Shockwave’s single optic blinked. “The parameters of the challenge were to design candy?”

Unicron take them all.

“Maybe you’ll like mine better?” Skywarp chirped, bouncing into Shockwave’s personal space as he held up a cube for Megatron’s perusal.

It was… promising.

Megatron selected the cube and held it up – noticing tangentially that Skywarp stuck his glossa out at Shockwave. The contents were purple and bubbly, but also oddly sludgy. A tentative sniff gave it a sweet, almost pleasant flavor.

It was worth a try.

Megatron tilted up the cube toward his lips and tried to take a sip. Nothing happened. Odd.

He pulled back the cube and peered at it. Half of the contents were gone, but he’d tasted nothing. He cycled his optics and upended the cube.

The liquid poured out and then proceeded to… evaporate? Seriously.

He cut a glance toward Skywarp who was sinking sheepishly back to his post. His faceplate pinked.

“I take it back,” Megatron said dryly. “Knock Out’s high grade was tasteless. Yours doesn’t even have the audacity to exist.” He handed the empty cube back to Skywarp, whose wings drifted downward in disappointment.

And if Shockwave loudly cycled his vocalizer, Megatron pretended not to notice.

Next, and certainly not least, was an offering of Starscream’s. The square-cut energon gels were a bright blue and dusted with what looked like magnesium powder.

Megatron leaned over and squinted at them. They looked delicious. They looked perfect. They looked like little cubes of poison sure to end him.

He peered up at Starscream with narrowed optics.

“I honestly don’t know if I should consume these or shoot them,” Megatron said and flashed his second a denta-baring grin. “Just to be sure.”

Starscream harrumphed and crossed his arms. “Jealousy does not become you, my lord.”

“But suspicion has saved my spark at least twice,” Megatron retorted and he straightened. Someone else would have to sample Starscream’s offer.

He pinched the bridge of his olfactory sensor and looked at the rest of the long table, where more questionable treats awaited his approval.

This was going to be a long, long cycle.


	146. Until Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Optimus  
> Universe: TFP, pre-series  
> Rating: T  
> Warning: None  
> Description: It may only last the holiday. But for now, he would take it.

The request came on an old private line, one Optimus thought long abandoned and kept for nostalgia's sake. Or perhaps an enduring hope that there might yet be an end to this war that wouldn't call for the death of millions. 

Optimus thought to ignore it, but the tug of yearning in his spark proved stronger and he opened the message shortly after. It was short, to the point, giving a set of coordinates, a requirement that he come alone, and a promise. 

He should have used the opportunity to its full advantage. Prowl certainly would have advised doing so. But Optimus did not ask his opinion. In fact, he told no one where he was going, save Jazz, because only Jazz understood. 

Here, on this special day, of course Megatron would contact him. 

When Optimus arrived at the coordinates, Megatron was already waiting. A single sensor sweep proved that he was alone, save for a box that was resting at his pedes. He was gleaming as though recently polished, and he didn't have a single weapon drawn. 

“Why have you called me here?” Optimus demanded. He had learned his lesson in offering Megatron courtesy first. He had the scar on his protoform to prove it. 

Megatron stared back at him. “Do you not know what day it is, Optimus?” 

“I am aware of the holiday. That does not answer my question.” 

Megatron huffed a soft laughter. “There was once a time you called me, brother,” he said with a vague gesture. “Surely I hold some piece of your spark. Enough to trust a truce.” 

“A truce,” Optimus repeated, his tone flat. 

He stared back at Megatron – a mech he had once called Megatronus and yes, a mech he had once called brother. A mech who had been more than that, who owned more than a piece of his spark. 

Who had, just a dozen cycles prior, stared at him with hatred across the battlefield, his crimson optics burning a tale of betrayal. 

“Why?” Optimus asked, his gaze flicking from Megatron to the box. 

“Because,” Megatron purred as he tilted his helm and something in his gaze softened, “I have missed.” 

Optimus' ventilations caught. The Matrix was new still, fresh enough in his chassis, that echoes of Orion still resonated within him. And those echoes stirred now, lurching forward, eager to taste that which Megatron was offering. 

A sense of longing rang through his frame, starting in his spark and radiating outward. Memories of softer times, gentler times. Kisses stolen in the dark. Rough grabs and gentle caresses. Pleasure winding over and through him. Gasps of want and need. Moments captured and stored in the safest throbs of his spark. 

Optimus unclenched his fingers. “For how long?” he asked, those echoes demanding that he move forward, toward the offered hand, which was taloned when it had not been before. 

It was stained, also, with the energon of so many Autobots. 

Megatron grinned with a flash of denta. “Let's be poets,” he said, and his free hand flicked toward the horizon. “Shall we say, until morning?” 

“The first glimmer of on-cycle,” Optimus murmured, and Orion remembered this, too. Remembered how often the first flicker of light had been his cue to leave. 

He shouldn't do this. 

He should walk away. 

“Come now, Optimus, surely there is something left of the mech I once knew within you,” Megatron cajoled so sweetly, almost as though he hadn't been shouting obscenities at Optimus only cycles prior. 

“Surely there is room for a little holiday spirit?” 

He should not do this. 

But the last, echoing part of Orion Pax, the strongest part, carefully shunted such thoughts away. And it was Orion Pax that squared his shoulders, looked up at Megatron, and took one step forward. 

“Do not call me Optimus,” he said, as he took Megatron's hand. 

His once-lover smirked and his free hand pressed to his chestplate, covering the Decepticon symbol that had so divided them. 

“Then for now until the light, I am Megatronus once more,” he said. 

Optimus and what was left of Orion allowed his battlemask to disengage. His spark warmed, though he dared not call it hope. 

It may only last the holiday. But for now, he would take it.


	147. Home Sweet Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Jazz  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Description: Ratchet wakes up in the middle of the night to find that his lover has returned.

Compared to Jazz's proximity sensors, Ratchet might as well be blind and deaf. Nevertheless, he wakes when the berth jostles, alerting him to the fact he's no longer alone. 

That and the ice cold frame that wraps around him without pause, a helm nudging against his frame. A softly purring engine is accompanied by a relieved energy field. 

“You're back early,” Ratchet murmurs, a touch of static in his vocals. He shifts to make room for his partner, who is leeching heat from his frame without any shame. “Should I be worried?” 

“Nah. It's a good kind of early.” Jazz's exhalations tickle at Ratchet's throat. 

“Mmm.” Ratchet's right hand wanders to Jazz's aft, giving it a gentle pat. The saboteur's plating is smooth and he smells of cleanser. “You even had time to shower. I'm impressed.” 

“Last time, ya complained about grit in the berth and said ya'd use a power washer on me if it happened again.” Jazz wriggles his aft. His engine clicks into a deeper pitch, his field nudging against Ratchet's with eager entreaty. 

“It was sand,” Ratchet retorts, and onlines one optic to peer down at Jazz, but given the way his partner has nuzzled into Ratchet's throat, it's impossible. A glossa then tickles at Ratchet's cables, making a shiver dart down his spinal strut. “Early and a playful mood. A success, I take it?” 

Jazz shimmies his hips again, their armor sliding together in a pleasant chime of metal on metal, the vibrations of which resonate through Ratchet's frame. “Mebbe I just missed ya.” Clever fingers trace around a seam in Ratchet's side, stroking the cable-webbed protoform beneath. 

“I'll bet.” Ratchet's engine rumbles into a low idle. Amusement trickles into his field. 

He tilts his helm down, pressing a kiss to Jazz's forehelm. “I'm kind of wiped though, as much as I'd enjoy pinning you down to this berth and ravishing you.” Jazz does smell enticing, and now that he's finally warming up, his ice-cold armor is not so jarring. 

“S'okay, Ratch. Me, too. We can play later.” Jazz tilts his helm up, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. 

A gentle warmth suffuses Ratchet's frame. If only he hadn't spent all afternoon on maintenance appointments followed by sparring with the Dinobots. He feels far too exhausted and sore to be interested in anything more than cuddling. 

“I even have something in mind,” Jazz says, their lips brushing together as he speaks. His fingers continue to trace Ratchet's seams, though it is more soothing than arousing. 

Ratchet rubs his aft and settles back into the berth. “And I have a new item from Wheeljack we can play with.”

“Ooo. Sounds like fun.” Jazz snuggles closer, enough that the thrumming of his spark can be felt through Ratchet's tactile sensors. It is a reassuring sensation. “In the morning though.” 

“Mm-hm.” Ratchet starts to drift back toward sleep, easier now that he doesn't have to worry about Jazz. “Welcome home, Jazz,” he murmurs as their fields entwine. 

Jazz's engine eases into a soft purr. “Love ya, too, Ratch,” he says on the tail end of a sigh. “It's good to be back.” 

A smile curves Ratchet's lips, and then he lets himself drift back into sleep, comforted by the knowledge that Jazz is back, and unharmed for it.


	148. Precise Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl/Sunstreaker  
> Universe: G1-ish  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: BDSM themes, sparkplay  
> Description: The greatest of gifts Sunstreaker has ever given Prowl is his trust.

It is a matter of precision. 

It has taken time to learn one another. Time and patience. Sunstreaker is not as easy to categorize as Prowl had once thought. And Prowl has a depth that Sunstreaker could not expect. 

But they have learned. They've taught one another. They've memorized the rhythms. 

Prowl, for example, has not only capitalized on it. He's turned it into an art form. Or more precisely, he's turned Sunstreaker into one. 

Take now, for instance, where Sunstreaker is kneeling on the floor, still and serene. His wrists are bound behind his back with silken rope, chosen for beauty not strength. He can escape with the single tug of his wrists, but the point is that he doesn't want to. His spark is bared, several layers of heavy armor pulled back and kept there by medical grade clasps. 

Sunstreaker had polished himself to perfection before arriving, and indeed, he's gorgeous. All curves and angles and glittering paint. But he's most beautiful like this, in submission and trust. It's a potent aphrodisiac. That he's bared himself to and for Prowl, well, there's little else the tactician finds so erotic. 

Prowl is seated before Sunstreaker, the tip of a flog gently tracing the seams around Sunstreaker's open spark chamber. He doesn't approach the vulnerable whorls of his partner's spark, but the desire echoing in Sunstreaker's field suggests that he wants Prowl to do so. Sunstreaker's fans whirr. Charge visibly crawls over his armor. 

He hasn't started begging. Not yet. But his spark is an eager thing, glowing bigger and brighter with every stroke of the flog. It is only a matter of time. 

It is precision. It is rhythm. Prowl can estimate, down to the count of ventilations, how long it will be before Sunstreaker starts to beg. Before pleasure drunk optics drift toward him, a glossa sweeps over parted lips, and Sunstreaker leans forward. Before a whine builds in his throat and spills out. 

And a single static laced word emerges from his vocalizer, “Please,” Sunstreaker murmurs and ah, he's two ventilations early. 

Prowl traces the innermost edges of Sunstreaker's spark chamber with the tip of the flog, avoiding the furthest flux of his partner's spark. Another shiver wracks Sunstreaker's frame. 

Prowl leans forward and Sunstreaker leans toward him in turn, another needy noise echoing in his chassis. The flog rests on Sunstreaker's shoulder, and it is Prowl's free hand that slips forward, that slips into Sunstreaker's chassis, and traces the inner edge of his spark casing. 

Sunstreaker gasps a ventilation. His spark pulses brighter, as if trying to spill from his casing and into Prowl's hand. 

Desire shoots straight into Prowl's spark. Trust, so much trust, it burns through his lines like a fire. 

“You needn't beg,” Prowl murmurs, his lips barely brushing over Sunstreaker's jaw, his cheek, up and over his forehelm. It's a featherlight touch. 

His fingers dip deeper, the warmth of Sunstreaker's spark teasing his dermal plating, and the excited energies nipping at his fingertips. 

“You know I will always give you what you need,” Prowl adds as he presses his helm against Sunstreaker's. 

Sunstreaker leans into him, asking without words, offering himself, his trust. Prowl soaks it in. 

It is a matter of precision, after all. Prowl has figured out, down to the tiniest twitch, everything Sunstreaker wants. And he has vowed to always provide it. 

For both of their sakes. 

***


	149. Terms and Conditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Animated  
> Rated: T  
> Desc: Kup and Springer discuss the terms of their new relationship contract.

“Pay attention, brat, this is important,” Kup said with a flick to Springer’s forehelm.

Springer grinned, the light sting not enough to deter him from trying to nuzzle into Kup’s throat, the scent of old, hot metal as intoxicating to him as high grade.

“I’m listening,” he insisted.

A pale green hand planted itself on his chestplate and shoved him back. “No yer not,” Kup said and a pede rose up, replacing Kup’s hand on Springer’s chest, keeping him pinned. “Now. Yes or no answers. Bondage?”

“Yes,” Springer said, a small thrill running through his lines at the pressure of the old mech’s pede on his ventrum.

“Good. Pain?”

“Yes,” Springer tried not to sound bored. But he trusted Kup and all of these questions were a waste of time.

He traced his fingers around Kup’s knee and then dragged them down, to the open gaps at Kup’s ankle strut. “Just yes for everything old timer,” Springer said with a roll of his optics.

“Everything,” Kup repeated flatly. He pressed down a little harder; the metal of Springer’s chestplate creaked. “So if I were to take a shockstick to your spark chamber, you’d have no worries?”

Springer blinked, ice drizzling down his spinal strut. “You wouldn’t do that.”

Kup arched an orbital ridge. “It fits in the category of everything.”

“Yeah, but… I didn’t think you were gonna kill me,” Springer said, his hand cupping Kup’s ankle, but all sense of play gone from his field.

“It wouldn’t kill ya. Not if done properly,” Kup corrected, and his voice took on a hard edge. “But that’s not what’s important. Limits are. And I want to know yers, brat. So take this seriously.”

Springer worked his intake. “Okay,” he said, and settled back into the berth. “Okay. I get your point. And for your information, no, you’re not allowed to take a shockstick to my spark.” He paused and tilted his helm. “But you can touch it, lick it, and merge with it anytime you want.” Because yes, he trusted Kup, he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.

“Noted,” Kup said. His vocals had a husky edge to them however. “And for the record, I have no intention of taking a shockstick to your spark. Now, what about spanking?”

Springer grinned. He knew that one was coming.

For some reason, Kup was under the impression that Springer needed a firm hand.

Luckily for both of them, Springer thought so, too.

 


	150. Serenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IDW  
> Rated: T  
> Desc: Optimus came here for the peace that Prowl offered.

The moment his panel popped, Optimus’ rumbling engine stuttered. Embarrassment replaced the low thrum of relaxation, and he tried to drag his knees together to conceal his now exposed spike.

This… it was not part of the plan. It wasn’t why Optimus came here, why he knelt so obediently, seeking solace in gentle touches and unassuming care.

“Optimus?”

He ducked his head, hiding his face from his master’s view. He had failed. His dermal plating heated as he scrubbed his thighs, unable to calm the dread pulsing in his spark.

His master’s hand landed on his head. The pitch of his master’s engine had not changed despite Optimus’ spike emerging.

“Look at me, pet.” His voice was gentle, but the words a command that couldn’t be ignored.

Reluctantly, Optimus lifted his gaze. Prowl’s face was carefully blank as he shifted to cup Optimus’ jaw, preventing him from looking away again.

“I am not angry,” his master said. “That is not an unexpected response. Is it one you wish me to ignore, or should we renegotiate the contract?”

Optimus worked his intake. His mouth opened, only to clamp shut. Was the question automatic permission to speak? He didn’t know. They hadn’t had enough sessions for him to know Prowl’s quirks.

Prowl must have read his indecision because he said, “You may answer.”

“I’m sorry,” Optimus all but blurted. “It was unintentional. It is not–”

“–what you are seeking. I understand.” His master’s thumb stroked over his cheek. “It will be ignored.”

Relief flooded Optimus’ field. He sighed a ventilation. “Thank you, Master.”

“You are welcome.” Prowl guided Optimus’ head back to where it had been resting on Prowl’s knee, within stroking distance. “Now as you were.”

“Yes, Master.” Optimus obeyed, ignoring the dull heat of unexpected arousal. Eventually, it would fade, his spike would retract, and hopefully, they could put this entire embarrassing incident behind them.

Right now, the peace Prowl’s command offered was all the satisfaction Optimus wanted.


	151. Impatience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Drift/Blurr   
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: BDSM themes, sticky, spark play  
> Description: Blurr doesn't have any patience, and it's all Drift's fault.

Blurr gnawed on his bottom lip, drawing on every ounce of determination he possessed, despite how much his resolve crumbled around him.  
  
Drift was doing outrageous things to his legs, to his thigh vents, and Blurr didn’t know how much longer he could take before he’d obey. Or at least, start begging.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to open for me?” Drift cajoled, flashing him a fanged smirk before his fingers dipped into the slats again, teasing the sensitive honeycomb structures beneath.  
  
Blurr’s backstrut arched, a hiss of pleasure escaping from his lips. “Not gonna,” he said, on the edge of an ex-vent.  
  
Drift chuckled, ex-venting damp heat over Blurr’s closed panel. Teasing him yet again. He’d said Blurr couldn’t use either half of his array. That what he wanted was Blurr’s spark, not his spike or valve. But it was up to Blurr to offer it.  
  
Feeling stubborn, Blurr stared back at him, determined to make Drift work for it.  
  
“I can’t convince you?” Drift asked, or purred rather, as he licked at Blurr’s closed panels and then dragged his mouth upward, ex-venting heat over Blurr’s abdominal armor.  
  
It rippled in anticipation. Pleasure followed in the wake of his mouth, Blurr’s frame rocking toward it. His spike throbbed, and his valve swelled, and he couldn’t release either of them!  
  
His chestplates juddered.  
  
Both of Drift’s hands were on his legs now. Fingers dipped into the wells of his vents, slat by slat. Drift’s lips left a trail of heat up the center of his windshield. His glossa flicked over the visible portion of Blurr’s chestplate seams, just above the top of his windshield.  
  
“Are you sure?” Drift asked.  
  
Blurr ground his denta. He tugged at his bonds, the ones wrapped around his wrists and his ankles, keeping him immobile, which was almost worse than the pleasure-teasing. He was a racer, he was designed to move!  
  
Drift’s mouth came closer to his. Closer and closer and closer – and then he bypassed Blurr’s lips entirely to play loving attention to Blurr’s helm crest. Sensor-rich plating tingled after the warm, wet glossa wriggled over it.  
  
Blurr moaned. His transformation joints trembled. His spark whirled, leaping forward, as though eager to see what pleasure Drift had to offer.  
  
“Open for me,” Drift murmured, his lips doing erotic things to Blurr’s audial as his fingers walked patterns of pleasure on Blurr’s thighs.  
  
Primus help him.  
  
Blurr shivered as he let his chestplates open, slowly but surely baring his spark to his mate’s optics. So what if he didn’t have any patience.  
  
So what?

 


	152. Disciplinary Procedure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Bumblebee   
> Universe: Animated  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: non-sexual BDSm themes  
> Description: Bumblebee needed to learn control, and Ratchet was somehow managing to teach it to him.

“You did really well, you know,” Ratchet said as he stroked his fingers down Bumblebee’s arms, careful to avoid his seams, intending for each motion to be soothing.  
  
Bumblebee’s field flushed with a sort of embarrassed pride. “Oh, um, thanks,” he said, quietly for once. He squirmed a little in Ratchet’s lap. “I didn’t think I would like something like that. How do you even know about it?”  
  
“Cause I’m old,” Ratchet said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Old and rusted. Of course I know everything.”  
  
“Pfft. You’re not that old,” Bumblebee retorted and he pushed back, rubbing his frame against Ratchet’s. “And old’s not a bad thing.”  
  
“Weren’t you just saying last week that I was creaking when I walked?” Ratchet countered with an arched orbital ridge.  
  
“Yeah, but, I didn’t mean it.” Bumblebee squirmed again until he turned on his front, planting his legs to either side of Ratchet’s waist so he was seated in Ratchet’s lap again, only this time facing him. “I was only teasing. I’m all talk. You know that, Ratch.”  
  
He tucked his hands under Bumblebee’s aft, holding the smaller mech in place. “Yeah, I do, brat.” He tilted his helm forward, pressing their forehelms together. “So. You good with what we did?”  
  
Bumblebee’s hands rested on his windshield. They were still trembling a little, an aftereffect of the stimulation Ratchet had given him. Not for the sake of pleasure, but for the sake of control.  
  
“Yeah. Surprisingly.” His gaze wandered away as his faceplate heated in what Sari would tease him about it being a blush. “I, uh, wouldn’t mind doing it again.” His glossa swept over his lips again as he rolled his hips forward. “It actually left me a little hot.”  
  
Ratchet’s orbital ridges rose. “Did it now? That wasn’t my intention, you know.”  
  
Bumblebee shrugged. “Guess I’m kinkier than you thought. And I thought.” He paused and then laughed, though his squirming grew more intense. “Guess I didn’t really learn that control, huh?”  
  
Ratchet chuckled, patting Bumblebee’s aft gently. “No. I’ll have to try something else in the future. See what I’ve got stored in my databanks.”  
  
“Now you’ve got me curious.” Bumblebee purred, his engine giving a rev that was probably loud enough to be heard in the hall. “Curious and excited.” As if to emphasis the latter, he rocked his hips, rubbing his panel against Ratchet’s ventrum.  
  
Ratchet hummed and patted Bumblebee’s aft again. “Maybe just let me hold you for now.”  
  
“Why? So you can send me off to Prowl all revved up?” Bumblebee asked.  
  
“Exactly.” Ratchet grinned, smug. “I get the fun part. He gets the messy one.”  
  
“Figures.” Bumblebee slumped against his frame, still heating up, but at least actively focusing on throttling it back for now.  
  
One of Ratchet’s hands shifted to his backplate, stroking it gently. He sent Prowl a ping, letting him know to come retrieve his disciplined – for lack of a better word – mate.  
  
Or at least, as disciplined as Bumblebee was going to get.


	153. Penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Wheeljack   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: BDSM themes, mentions of painplay and whipping  
> Description: Wheeljack knew they were at war, but that didn't mean he could easily forgive himself. Luckily, Ratchet is always there to help.

“This one’s deep,” Ratchet murmured, the words a warning.  
  
Wheeljack braced himself, but still hissed when the soothing gel was carefully dabbed on the burns. It stung.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“S'okay.” Wheeljack braced himself again, his back now a curious mixture of tingling and burning. “I asked for it.”  
  
“I know. I also want to know why.” Ratchet’s voice floated to his audials from behind Wheeljack, his field gently covering Wheeljack from top to bottom.  
  
Wheeljack folded his arms beneath his chin. His own field was calm and his spark settled. His valve had a pleasant ache. His spike was sated.  
  
His back, however, was a spiderweb of crisscrossing lines of fire. Ratchet was a maestro with an electrowhip. He knew how to paint pain, how to cut through the most durable armor. Some of the marks would scar, not that anyone could tell. Wheeljack’s entire frame was a mismatched mess of weldlines and scrapes and scratches.  
  
Of course Ratchet would want to know why Wheeljack wanted to add to the canvas.  
  
He sighed a vent. “Because I owe,” Wheeljack answered and hoped Ratchet understood without him having to elaborate.  
  
Forty-seven lashes.  
  
Forty-seven sparks he sent to the Well.  
  
Ratchet’s hands never stopped moving, applying strip after strip of nanite gel. “You can’t keep this up,” he said quietly. “I can’t either.”  
  
“Just a little while longer. I promise.”  
  
He hoped.  
  
Ratchet shifted his weight, hands stilling, their weight briefly wresting on Wheeljack’s lower back. He felt the gentle press of lips to his spinal strut, a kiss right over the nexus of a dozen lashes.  
  
“We’ll find a better way,” Ratchet said as he leaned back and continued tending to the burns. “Otherwise, what’s it all for?”  
  
Wheeljack made a noncommittal sound of agreement. What indeed.


	154. Quite Contrary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Blurr/Rodimus/Starscream  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky, BDSM themes  
> Description: When it comes to Starscream, nothing ever goes to plan.

This was not going to plan at all.  
  
Then again, he should have known considering it was Starscream. Blurr seemed to be having no trouble at all, Rodimus noticed. Probably because Starscream actually listened to him, but when it was Rodimus’ turn at the helm, Starscream turned into a disobedient little git in need of several swattings.  
  
Rodimus said as much.  
  
“No,” Blurr replied, his fingers curled around the ropes attached to the clamps on Starscream’s winglets. “Not this time around.”  
  
Starscream threw a smirk over his shoulder, one Blurr had to have seen, but once again, Blurr did not punish him for his insolence.  
  
Rodimus crossed his arms and huffed. “You’re not so good at the discipline part of this, are you?”  
  
Blurr arched an orbital ridge. “I’m as good as I need to be,” he said, and gave a gentle tug to the ropes. “Kneel.”  
  
Starscream obeyed, though slowly, putting on a show. That he knelt closer to Blurr than to Rodimus had to be on purpose. His wings twitched as little as they were able given the lack of reach in the ropes.  
  
Blurr’s hand rested on Starscream’s head, patting him like one might an obedient pet. “See? It’s all a matter of tone.”  
  
Rodimus rolled his optics. “I’ll show you tone,” he muttered and stomped toward Starscream, already palming his spike. This was not going to plan at all.  
  
“If anyone needs a swatting, it’s you,” Starscream purred. He winked an optic at Rodimus and then tilted his gaze up toward Blurr. “Isn’t that right, Master?”  
  
Blurr chuckled. “Maybe next time, Star.” He tilted his helm and looked at Rodimus, something sparkling in his optics. “It would be kind of fun to have two pretty pets,” he added with a long, lingering look at Rodimus.  
  
He drew up short, fingers wrapped around his spike. A shiver raced across his armor, an unexpected thrill drizzling into his spark. The way Blurr looked at him was calculating, as though he were trying to decide the best way to wrap Rodimus up in chains and where exactly to put the clamps.  
  
“Hey, Starscream’s the pet right now. Not me,” Rodimus said, even as he squeezed several drops of pre-fluid from his spike.  
  
“Things can always change,” Blurr purred and he gave a long, slow pull to the ropes, stressing Starscream’s flaps.  
  
A low sound of pleasure rose in Starscream’s vocalizer. His optics dimmed, a visible shiver overtaking his frame. His glossa swept over his lips.  
  
“Isn’t that right, Star?”  
  
“Mmm.” Half-lidded crimson optics regarded Rodimus with interest. “Yes, Master.” Starscream’s lips parted as though inviting Rodimus.  
  
Arousal returned in a rush. He pretended he didn’t notice Blurr smirking at him.  
  
Rodimus supposed he could be forgiving. But just this once.


	155. A Study in Focus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Blades/Heatwave   
> Universe: Rescue Bots  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: BDSM Themes  
> Description: Heatwave waits for a nervous Blades to take command.

It takes all he has to keep from giggling. He can’t seem to get in the proper mindset, despite all the prepwork he’d done beforehand. There’s only so much one can learn from a datapad, you know. Especially the technical manual that Chase had slid into the stack when he thought Blades wouldn’t notice.  
  
Pfft.  
  
Anyway, yes. Blade is having trouble focusing. Because there Heatwave is, paying attention to Blades. Full attention. And he’s not being mean or yelling or telling Blades what he did wrong.  
  
He’s just waiting. Waiting for Blades to take command.  
  
“Um. So.” Blades taps his fingers together. “I guess I should just go ahead and start.”  
  
“Any minute now, yeah, that would be great,” Heatwave replies, a touch of frustration in his voice. Though Blades had to give him credit. He hasn’t gotten growly yet.  
  
“Hey!” Blades plants his hands on his hips. “I’m the one in charge here. Well, I mean, technically you’re in charge, but I’m supposed to be taking care of you and–”  
  
“Blades,” Heatwave interrupts with a gentleness to his voice that Blades rarely gets to hear. “You’re overthinking it. You’re going to do fine.”  
  
His face heats. “Okay.” Blades shutters his optics and cycles a deep ventilation like Boulder taught him.  
  
“Okay,” Blades repeats and looks down at Heatwave. “If you want to stop, just say stop.”  
  
Heatwave nods. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Oh. Oh, Primus.  
  
Blades swallows down another nervous laugh. “And, um, put your hands behind your back. Keep them there.”  
  
Heatwave obeys, his optics following Blades with patience. It’s like he’s become another person, taken on a role. Like an actor in one of Cody’s movies.  
  
Oh. Oh.  
  
And finally, it clicks. Blades understands. He thinks, yes. Yes, I can do this.  
  
“Good,” he says, not Blades the Rescue Bot, but Blades the Dominant whom Heatwave trusts. “Very, very good. Now we can start."

 


	156. Delicate Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Whirl/Rung  
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: BDSM Themes  
> Description: Whirl hoped he performed well enough to earn a second date.

Rung’s spark was one of the most beautiful things Whirl had ever seen, especially post-overload. The way it kind of glittered gently at him, sated and content, it made him feel kinda warm and gooey inside.  
  
That Rung trusted him enough to play with it might have had something to do with it, too.  
  
“You okay, Eyebrows?” Whirl asked as he carefully unhooked the blindfold from around Rung’s optics.  
  
Taking away the goggles had helped some, but Rung wanted complete sense dep and so Whirl had obliged by acquiring some accessories that even he, in his claw-like state, could use. The audial dampeners were the first to come off though, that way Rung could gradually turn up the gain.  
  
Yeah. Brainstorm helped a little. Not that Whirl would tell Rung that. Brainstorm could make non-dangerous things when he wanted to and when he concentrated!  
  
There were a few clicks as Rung reset his vocalizer before his lips curled in a soft smile. Static emerged first, before Rung’s familiar voice filled the room. “Yes, Whirl. I am fine. Thank you.”  
  
He tilted his helm, peering at Rung with all the curiosity he could put into his one optic. “You’re sure? Cause if you’re not, and you’re just pretendin’ you are to spare my feelin’s or somethin’…”  
  
Rung lay a hand on his arm with a soft pat. “I promise, Whirl. I am well.” His free hand closed his chestplates, tucking his spark away.  
  
Until next time, Whirl hoped. Maybe he’d done good enough that he’d get a second try.  
  
“You did not hurt me,” Rung continued, squeezing Whirl’s arm gently. “In fact, if the tingle in my circuits is any indication, you did very, very well.”  
  
Whirl’s spark fluttered. He was not going to get embarrassed or flustered. No, he was not.  
  
“Well then, good,” he said, and he didn’t flutter with pride either. Nope. Sure didn’t. “You really like that stuff, huh?”  
  
Rung’s smile turned coy. “Yes, I do.” He hopped off the berth, which only highlighted their height difference. “And I especially like ‘that stuff’ when you are on the other side of it. You have a wonderfully delicate touch.”  
  
Whirl’s engine went ker-thunk. But he wasn’t flustered. “Oh, um, thanks. I guess.” He looked at Rung’s hand, still on his arm, though a little more awkwardly now that Rung wasn’t of equal height with him. “So you should get energon now, yeah? You said afterward you’re usually low so…”  
  
He fished around in his subspace, hunting for the cube of mid-grade he’d stashed in there earlier. He finally produced it after shuffling aside some percussion grenades and offered it down to Rung with a flourish.  
  
“See? I remembered.”  
  
The shorter mech’s mouth curved upward. “Indeed you did,” he said as he accepted the cube. “I knew you would.”


	157. Messy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Drift/Ratchet  
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Warning: BDSM themes, petplay, dom/sub  
> Description: Ratchet made a mess, and it's his responsibility to clean it up.

 

“Look at you,” Drift said, clicking his glossa at his pet. “You made a mess on the floor.”  
  
He circled around the kneeling red and white frame, shaking his head at the puddle beneath Ratchet’s aft. It was a shimmering mix of spent transfluid and lubricant, with a few spatters striping Ratchet’s belly and further across the floor.  
  
“Not only did you make a mess,” Drift continued as he reached down, unsnapping the ring gag that kept Ratchet’s mouth open and ready for his use, “but you overloaded before I gave you permission.”  
  
He pressed his hand to the back of Ratchet’s head and pushed the medic's face down toward the floor, until Ratchet was staring at the results of his own actions. Ratchet’s hands stayed planted flat; he didn’t try to push back. The shift in position resulted in hiking his aft high in the air. His knees spread further apart.  
  
Drift tried not to get tempted by Ratchet’s stretched, dripping valve. His spike ached to slide into that clenching heat. But no. Not yet.  
  
Ratchet had to understand the consequences of his actions first.  
  
“I just had this floor cleaned,” Drift continued, careful to keep his tone mild, despite Ratchet’s arousal, which flooded his field like an inferno and slammed against Drift’s own. “So I think you should clean up this mess.”  
  
Ratchet’s engine rumbled at him, loud enough to make his entire frame vibrate. His armor flexed, opening up his seams. His fingers kneaded the floor, knees scraping as they pushed even further apart, lowering his face closer to the floor.  
  
He ex-vented loudly. “I have cloths,” Ratchet said, his vocals small, so very small, but the excitement in his field completely belied it.  
  
“Cloths.” Drift snorted, asserting more pressure on Ratchet’s helm, until his olfactory sensor nearly pressed to the floor. “Good pets get to use cloths. Bad pets have to use their glossa.”  
  
Ratchet’s engine shifted into a higher pitch. He outright moaned. He didn’t bother to put forth the effort to protest.  
  
Drift pushed Ratchet’s face the last precious inch, rubbing his nasal ridge and cheek against the cooling transfluid dribbled onto the floor.  
  
“Well,” he said. “Get to it, pet. I don’t have all day.” He kept his hand there, though they both knew Ratchet wasn’t going to try to back away.  
  
Drift’s glossa swept over his own lips as he watched Ratchet’s glossa emerge, slowly at first, the first lick against the floor forcing Drift to swallow a groan. His spike emerged suddenly, the sound echoing above Ratchet’s rumbling engine.  
  
Two more licks and Ratchet had cleaned the floor directly below him. He needed no prompting to shift forward, lapping up the nearest spatter to him.  
  
Drift wrapped his free hand around himself. “Don’t, unngh, don’t miss a drop,” he said, ventilations quickening. “I want this floor to sparkle when you’re done.”  
  
A low whine eeked from Ratchet’s vocalizer. His aft swayed.  
  
“And you better hurry, too.” Drift squeezed his spike. “Because if I overload before I get a chance to frag your aft, you’re gonna have to clean that up, too.”

 


	158. More and Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Optimus  
> Universe: Amalgam  
> Rating: M  
> Warning: BDSM themes, painplay, sticky, valve spanking  
> Description: Megatron knew exactly what Optimus wanted.

He didn’t know pain could feel like this. Bright and overwhelming, so hot that it was cold, so cold that it was hot. So sharp that it was dull. So enveloping that he felt swallowed in it.  
  
Optimus writhed, testing the strength of his bonds, wrapped in Megatron’s field, but unable to see his lover over him. The inhibitor clamped to his temple blocked all visual input, which forced him to hear, to focus on feeling.  
  
And feel he did.  
  
His array was an inferno, fire licking upward and out. His spike was trapped behind his panel, thickening and pressing with insistence, but unable to shove through the lock placed over it. His valve was on display, aided by the multiple spreader bars, keeping him exposed, open, vulnerable to this sweet torment.  
  
Megatron’s palm fell over him again, a sharp smack that jolted Optimus’ entire frame. His palm hit the swollen, hot pleats of Optimus’ rim. His fingers rang in a triple-tap over Optimus’ anterior node.  
  
Optimus’ engine roared. He gnawed on the bit pressed between his denta, keeping him from biting his own glossa. A growl rose in his vocalizer, ripe with static. But not once did he reach for his internal comm. Not once did the word to cease cross his mind.  
  
“More,” he begged, though it came out garbled.  
  
“I know,” Megatron murmured, his words hitched, like his vents. His arousal was as strong, as thick as Optimus’. It wound in his field, pulsing in time to Optimus’ own. “Everything you want.”  
  
Again.  
  
Againagainagainagain.  
  
Optimus jerked with every strike. Overload built within him, pleasure stacking in bright bursts through his sensory net. It hurt. By Primus, it burned like lightning through his circuits. His entire frame narrowed down to focus on his anterior node, on the sensitive dermal layer of his valve and rim.  
  
Megatron’s strikes grew harder, faster. Lubricant splashed out on a particularly strong strike. Optimus tossed his helm back and keened.  
  
He was going to be raw. He was going to be sore. He was going to ache for days. Every step he took would jar his tender components, reminding him of this moment.  
  
He couldn’t wait. He craved it like nothing he’d ever needed before.  
  
“More,” Optimus cried, words striped in static and unintelligible.  
  
But Megatron understood. Megatron knew what he needed. His palm slammed down on Optimus’ valve again, the perfect angle, the perfect amount of force.  
  
Optimus thrashed as overload tore through him so violently that he felt something within him fizzle out. He screamed soundlessly, convulsing in his bonds, pain a concept that had no definition anymore as his awareness soared into the atmosphere.  
  
He didn’t intend to come down for hours.


	159. A Different Kind of Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus/Megatron  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: BDSM themes, Aftercare  
> Description: In the silence afterward, Optimus finds Megatron at peace.

The silence used to worry him.  
  
It wasn’t like Megatron to be quiet and still. It wasn’t like him to not speak, if only just to offer a teasing word or a pointed jab meant to incite. They were very good at that, inciting one another.  
  
So the silence worried him. Now, Optimus recognized that it was part of Megatron’s recovery process. That he worked through his own emotions, the sensations, in a soft daze that left him draped across Optimus’ lap, engine purring.  
  
Like an Earth feline almost, Optimus thought fondly.  
  
He didn’t mind. He was content to sit there as Megatron flopped over his legs, arms loosely wrapped around Optimus’ waist, his face pressed to Optimus’ ventrum. Optimus took the opportunity to stroke gentle patterns over whatever he could reach.  
  
Megatron’s head, his shoulders, his arms, his back. Megatron’s armor would flutter beneath the careful stroke of his fingertips, seams widening as though inviting him to massage the cables beneath. Megatron’s field was settled and calm. He ventilated evenly.  
  
He liked to come back to himself slowly, surely, as though resettling into his frame and reminding himself of who and what he was took great care.  
  
Optimus considered it a compliment. That he could work Megatron over so well that the former warlord could be sent floating, sent soaring into the universe, separate from the trials of his own frame.  
  
Cleaning up would wait until Megatron stirred. Optimus locked down whatever arousal he felt at the sight of the stickness between Megatron’s thighs and soaking the berth beneath him. His front was liberally spattered with fluids as well. Wait too long, and it would start to itch. But as long as Megatron was comfortable, Optimus would ignore the growing heat in his own panel.  
  
He would never not want Megatron.  
  
The hands resting at Optimus’ backstrut started to move in gentle patting motions. Megatron stirred, his face rubbing against Optimus’ ventrum as he made a low, content noise at the back of his intake.  
  
“Better?” Optimus murmured. He’d learned his lesson about speaking too loudly, too suddenly, in the wake of a session.  
  
A startled Megatron was a very dangerous Megatron, and though Optimus could handle himself, he didn’t particularly like the tongue-lashing either of them received as a result of their own foolishness.  
  
“Mm. Your panel’s hot, Optimus,” Megatron said, something sly in his tone. His legs shifted, rubbing against Optimus’.  
  
Optimus’ lips curved upward. “One wonders why.”  
  
“I suppose that I’m simply so inspiring you can’t help it.” Megatron chuckled, his ex-vents puffing warm bursts against Optimus’ ventrum.  
  
“Then I suppose you know what to do about it, hm?”  
  
Megatron nuzzled his armor, the wet tickle of a lick making Optimus startle. “Oh, yeah,” he breathed. “I can think of a few things.”

 


	160. To Each His Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Ultra Magnus  
> Universe: MTMTE, Season Two  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: BDSM Themes, Contract Discussion, Aftercare  
> Description: Because a cleaning Magnus was a content Magnus, which was what they both wanted out of this. Especially Megatron.

Afterward, Megatron liked to talk.  
  
Ultra Magnus, well, he liked to clean.  
  
It was odd, not the oddest thing Megatron had seen, but quite peculiar. Ultra Magnus claimed it helped him center himself, get back into his own head and feel like he was settling back into his own frame. Which was an especially odd thing to say considering that Ultra Magnus was, at his core, Minimus Ambus. But who was Megatron to inform a mech of his identity? That was something only said mech could sort for himself.

 

Watching Ultra Magnus clean afterward, however, felt to Megatron that they were still in session. But he would never command that Ultra Magnus clean his quarters as part of their play. Or organize the datapads in his office. Or change the berth covers. Or clean the view port. Or any of the various tasks that Ultra Magnus puttered around completing as they talked.  
  
It wasn’t the way Megatron would choose to initiate aftercare, but it was what Ultra Magnus wanted. And since Megatron talked the way he wanted, it worked out. Besides, he never had to worry about Ultra Magnus enduring anything.  
  
He was, at least in this, quite upfront about anything that made him uncomfortable.  
  
“I’m finding that I actually enjoy when you order me to service you,” Ultra Magnus said as he tidied the various items on Megatron’s desk. He wouldn’t meet Megatron’s optics as though it embarrassed him to speak of interfacing things aloud, yet his comments were nothing if not direct. “Spike or valve, both are acceptable.”  
  
Megatron’s lips curled into a smile. “I have to admit, I enjoy when you service me.” He shifted in his chair, pretending he wasn’t getting heated beneath his panel again. There was something in Ultra Magnus’ quiet surrender that aroused him like no other.  
  
Especially when he was given the privilege of praising Ultra Magnus for that surrender. Of feeling the honest pride blossom in Magnus’ field, and the way he relaxed as though soaking in an oil bath. His armor would fluff, easing from its clamp. The pinched expression on his face would ease.  
  
He was absolutely stunning in the wake of praise, and Megatron would take every opportunity he could to offer it to him. Ultra Magnus was delightfully easy to commend; he obeyed so well. He deserved every word from Megatron’s lips.  
  
“We’re not in session,” Ultra Magnus said with a sideways glance.  
  
Megatron leaned his head against his closed fist. “Yes, I know. It is true nonetheless. I am confirming that this contract is remaining mutually beneficial to us both. Was there anything about tonight’s session that you didn’t find appealing?”  
  
Ultra Magnus made a non-committal noise and moved to Megatron’s chair, frowning over it when one of the screws squeaked. He knelt to examine it.

“No. You seem to have a knack for the right things to say. Though I shouldn’t be so surprised.” He peered at Megatron over the back of the chair. “I hear you’re something of a poet.”  
  
Megatron looked away, coughing into his palm. “We’re not talking about my needs right now, but yours. Am I to believe you are still satisfied with our current contract?”  
  
Magnus chuckled and returned his attention to the chair. “I am, for now, yes. If anything should change, you’ll be the first to know.”  
  
“Good. That’s what I want to hear.” Megatron returned his attention to his lover, something he never could have expected.  
  
He liked to watch Magnus clean, as much as he enjoyed their talks. Because a cleaning Magnus was a content Magnus, which was what they both wanted out of this. Especially Megatron.

 


	161. Sparkeater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Lockdown  
> Universe: Animated  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: shades of dubcon, bondage, sparklicking  
> Description: Ratchet had traced paths of pleasure that made Lockdown at once glad he hadn’t fought very hard.

This was not what he expected. 

But there he was, tied up in his own chains, in his own vessel, in his own idea of a medical bay, with that old timer of a medic crouched over him, his open spark chamber, and an evil gleam in his Autobot blue optics.

“Ya don’t got what it takes,” Lockdown had challenged. 

And Ratchet smirked. 

He teased Lockdown’s chestplates open with blunt, talented fingers. Ratchet had traced paths of pleasure that made Lockdown pant, made him twist in his chains, made him at once glad he hadn’t fought very hard. 

Those fingers traced around his spark chamber, drawing lines of charge. He could see the light of his spark reflecting in the medic’s face, over his cracked chevron. 

Ratchet grinned and ex-vented damp heat against the reaching tendrils of Lockdown’s spark. He grunted as his backstrut arched, his chest pushing toward the medic. 

“Ya ain’t gonna eat me, are ya, old timer?” Lockdown taunted, tilting his chin, feigning disinterest. 

“Well,” Ratchet replied as his face bent nearer and nearer to the increasingly frantic pulses of Lockdown’s spark, “that depends on whether or not you behave.” 

He closed the distance and Lockdown felt, somehow, the first damp swipe of a glossa over the furthest ring of his spark energy. Pleasure zinged like lightning down his backstrut, and his entire frame jolted. A moan slipped free, his systems surging with charge. 

“Hnngh. Do it again!” Lockdown demanded as he tugged at the restraints, the sound of rattling chains like music to his audials. 

Ratchet laughed, the vibrations echoing through Lockdown’s spark. “Say please.” 

He was going to do it. He was going to make Lockdown beg. Apparently, this was the old timer’s idea of revenge. 

Frag him to the Pit and back.


	162. Kneel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream/Onslaught  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: dom/sub themes  
> Description: It is the easiest of commands to obey.

“Kneel.” 

It is the easiest of all the commands to obey. It leaves a peace in his spark, despite the mech he is bowing to. 

Onslaught drops down, his faceplate at level with Starscream’s right foot, the Seeker’s thruster pointed dangerously toward his head. Onslaught's hands rest on his thighs. 

Starscream sits above him, on something Onslaught would dare call a throne, one leg crossed over the other. He leans to the side, weight braced on his elbow, head tilted upon a closed fist. He smirks as he looks down at Onslaught, the curve of his lips as commanding as his tone of voice. 

His foot moves, slowly, slowly. It inches toward Onslaught’s head, the tip of it pressing against the edge of his visor. He’s visited the washrack recently. He smells of hot metal and solvent, and a lingering tang of afterburn. 

“Pity you don’t have a mouth,” Starscream purrs as his foot nudges against Onslaught’s head. 

His fingers itch, aching to touch. This is a dangerous game they play, for Onslaught especially, because Starscream can be treacherous. But no one commands the way Starscream does. No one knows how to bend and twist. No one else understands. 

“I suppose I’ll have to find other uses for you,” Starscream continues as his foot strokes up and down the side of Onslaught’s helm. 

His spark burns in his chassis. Fluids pump through his lines, faster and faster. He knows better than to speak. His ventilations increase. 

Starscream’s glossa flicks over his lips. “Maybe you’ll make a suitable footrest.” 

Onslaught’s engine whines. 

Starscream’s optics burn with glee.


	163. Tame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl/Sunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: bondage, bdsm themes, tactile  
> Description: Prowl liked taming the wildness in Sunstreaker because he knew it was only his temporarily.

He knew the silver chains were a good idea. They contrasted perfectly with Sunstreaker’s armor, as carefully as he had laid every coil around the frontliner’s frame. 

They bound his ankles and wrists. They looped around his thighs and forearms. They draped down his chestplate, bracketing his spark chamber. They were so thin as to be delicate, but half the challenge was in ensuring Sunstreaker did not snap them. 

Sunstreaker was hot already. His optics were dim, as if drugged, but Prowl knew it had nothing to do with intoxicants and everything to do with indulgence. 

Sunstreaker’s engine purred, even louder when Prowl traced his seams. The chains rattled. Sunstreaker tugged, not to test whether or not he could break free, but to ensure he was tightly bound. He liked knowing he was trapped, whilst knowing he was safe.

Prowl enjoyed trapping him, while knowing he had Sunstreaker at his mercy. He liked taming the wildness in Sunstreaker, so to speak, because he knew that wildness was only his to tame temporarily. 

He was beautiful in every way. 

“Prowl…” Sunstreaker moaned, his optics following Prowl’s every motion, his frame surging toward Prowl, but restrained by the chains. 

His name echoed in his audials. It sent a shiver down Prowl’s name. 

“Sing for me,” he urged as he pulled charge from Sunstreaker’s substructure and drove his lover’s pleasure even higher. “Let me set you free.” 

Bound as he was, by glittering chains, Sunstreaker keened as he climbed toward release.

Perhaps next, Prowl might even be allowed to claim his spark.


	164. Preemptive Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Rodimus  
> Universe: MTMTE S2  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: sticky sex, spanking  
> Description: Megatron's lost count of the number of times his palm has impacted the flame-emblazoned aft.

His lap is soaked, covered in a mixture of lubricant and transfluid. He’s lost count of the number of times his palm has impacted the flame-emblazoned aft. 

But he knows how many overloads he’s caused, and it’s still not enough for Megatron’s pride. 

Rodimus wriggles over his thighs again. He’s a mess, a whimpering, needy mess and Megatron is all too eager to provide. Right now, his palm rests on Rodimus’ aft, his plating so hot as to be scorching. His valve is leaking, his spike is leaking, but he’s still pressurized, he’s still hard, humping and rutting against the side of Megatron’s thigh. 

His fingers twitch and clench where his wrists are caught in Megatron’s free hand, pinned to the base of his backstrut. His spoiler winglets are twitching, twitching, and his field is a frantic, needy mess. 

“P-please!” Rodimus cries, garbled and static-laced, his aft wriggling enticingly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Megatron says casually as he rubs Rodimus’ very sore aft. “I think you’ve learned your lesson. I think I’ve forgiven you even.” 

“No!” Rodimus tugs at his wrists to no avail. “No, I’m still… I'm still… I’m a bad boy!”

Megatron can barely contain his glee. “Oh, I think you’re being too hard on yourself. You’ve practically been a model of good behavior lately.” 

“I haven’t!” 

Megatron’s glossa sweeps over his lips. “Perhaps what you seek is a preemptive punishment, hm? Something to encourage future good behavior?” 

He slips his hand down, lets a single fingertip trace the rim of Rodimus’ dripping valve and grins when Rodimus tries to wiggle back toward it. 

“Yes! I need– I need–” 

“I know what you need,” Megatron interrupts, squeezing Rodimus’ wrists. His hand returns to his co-captain’s aft, giving it a pat. “And I’m just kind enough to give it you.” 

He lifts his hand and slams it back down onto Rodimus’ aft. The loud ring of metal on metal is almost enough to drown out Rodimus’ pleased wail. 

_Almost_.


	165. New Tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus/Ratchet  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: frotting, sticky sex  
> Description: Optimus had a meeting, but there was just enough time.

“Don’t you – ah – have a meeting?” Ratchet gasped as Optimus pressed him harder against the wall, leaving harsh scrapes of white in the stone. 

Optimus’ bent down, nibbling at Ratchet’s throat. “I have a little time,” he rumbled as he rolled his hips, grinding their panels together, as neither of them had extended their equipment. 

“But you don’t have time to clean up,” Ratchet said, even as another moan escaped him, one leg tightening around Optimus’ waist. He put his hands on Optimus’ shoulders, every intention being to push Optimus away before they got further than he could resist. 

“Which is why I’ve not opened my panel,” Optimus replied with a teasing laugh that few knew him capable. 

He then rolled his hips, scraping metal against metal, and Ratchet stopped pushing and started holding. His helm tipped back, mouth falling open, as pleasure rippled through his frame. His array pinged for release, and Ratchet denied it. 

There was a… a meeting. And Optimus didn’t have time. 

Ratchet rocked down, meeting Optimus’ heated panel with his own, feeling lubricant seep around the edges. His valve ached with need, but there was something deliciously dirty about doing it this way. 

“Learning new tricks then?” Ratchet moaned as he had to deny a second and third request, charge licking out from under his armor as arousal notched higher and higher. 

Optimus’ lips dragged a searing path up the curve of Ratchet’s jaw. “I learned from the best,” he claimed, and stole Ratchet’s lips for a breath-stealing kiss.


	166. Playmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream/Jazz  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: knifeplay  
> Description: It required trust, outside the limits of labels.

“Aren’t you afraid?” 

Jazz grinned at him, tilting his chin back, going so far as to offer his intake. “Nah, m’mech. I figure, you bein’ you, ya must know how to handle that thing properly.” 

Starscream’s optics narrowed. He aimed the knife at Jazz’s knee, at the delicate joints visible in the wider seams, which attributed to Jazz’s enviable flexibility. 

“That I do.” Starscream traced the sharp tip against the edge of Jazz’s armor, the soft whisper of metal interacting barely audible over the whirring of Jazz’s ventilations. “But I am a Decepticon.” 

“Pfft.” Jazz’s visor brightened, his thighs pushing further open, as though baring himself on purpose. “Those’re just labels. Sides, you ain’t gonna miss a chance to show off, are ya?” 

Mmm. He had a point. 

Starscream curled his free hand around Jazz’s left knee and dragged the tip of his knife further upward, raising curls of paint in his wake. “Then you trust me?” 

“Bout as far as I can throw ya.” Jazz’s visor burned more intensely. His glossa swept over his lips, his engine revving. “But no one’s as good at what ya do as you.” 

Starscream’s wings fluttered with pride. “Very, very true.” 

He flicked his wrist and the knife bit deep, a sharp sting that caused energon to well up from beneath Jazz’s armor. It dribbled free, leaving streaks on Jazz’s plating. It was a mesh wound, something his self-repair would seal soon enough. 

But Jazz’s ventilations hitched. His armor rippled. His field opened, inviting Starscream inside. 

“And you make for an enticing playmate,” Starscream said, licking his own lips in anticipation. “Very well, I promise not to hurt you.” He flicked his wrist, drawing free another dribble of energon, though this time from a different line. “No further than you want, of course.” 

Jazz’s engine positively roared. “Sounds good to me.”


	167. Deep Dive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Rodimus  
> Universe: MTMTE S2  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Valve-spelunking, sticky sex  
> Description: It was Rodimus' idea. (Credit to thebuggu for valve-spelunking!)

Of course, it was Rodimus’ idea. 

Megatron didn’t like to let himself get caught up in Rodimus’ fervor, but somehow, he ended up swept away in the end. He didn’t know how. It was kind of baffling. 

But here he was, with a moaning Rodimus beneath him, trying not to wriggle, holding himself open for Megatron to take a trek into the depths of his valve. Only Rodimus would take a scientifically tactical device and turn it into an opportunity for pleasure. 

He obviously expected that Megatron would happily take a jaunt inside, and then drive him crazy with pleasure as he stimulated each and every one of Rodimus’ nodes. He expected that Megatron would be duly content with obeying Rodimus and watching his fellow co-captain come undone. 

Well. Megatron probably would enjoy most of it. He admitted that Rodimus did make a pretty picture and hearing him whimper in overload was far better than listening to him whine about whatever it was he wanted. 

He shrank himself until he stood shorter than Rodimus’ thigh, and about the height of Rodimus’ spike. The Autobot could easily pick him up and crush him, but that was little concern. The pursuit of pleasure tended to trump all else for Rodimus. 

Megatron eyed his leaking valve. Rodimus was pleading above him, trying to goad him. His thighs trembled. His fingers flexed where he held himself open. 

“Come on. Just do it. Are you afraid? Can’t handle it? Can’t handle me?” 

Che. Brat. 

Though he had to admit, Rodimus’ valve was appealing. It glittered with white and red biolights, that spiraled inward, like a landing strip toward pleasure. Yellow lines curled around the rim, his folds swelling with arousal. His anterior node flashed at Megatron, as demanding as it’s owner. He even had the housing pierced. 

Megatron was not so surprised. 

He thought about ignoring Rodimus’ pleas. He thought about the other idea he had, but now he was intrigued. What would it be like? 

Damn it. There he went again, getting pulled into the brat’s crazy ideas. 

Fine. This time, he’d do it. Just to say he did. But never again. He didn’t care how much Rodimus begged. It would only be the once.


	168. Lower Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Smokescreen  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Tribbing, Valve frot  
> Description: Smokescreen would have to goad Ratchet more often.

It was the wettest kiss Smokescreen had ever felt, and it had nothing to do with his mouth. 

He moaned and dropped his head back, doorwings digging into the soft berth. His hands locked onto Ratchet, one wrapped around each thigh, pulling himself down, harder and faster, onto the valve pressed to his own. 

Ratchet’s right arm was wrapped around his left leg, pinning it against the medic’s right side, leaving him open and hungry. Leaving him perfectly positioned for each downward grind of Ratchet’s valve against his own. The sensitive rims of their valves met, static crackling between them. 

Smokescreen gasped again. “Oh, Primus, that’s good,” he groaned, rolling his hips and shivering when their anterior nodes met and pressed together, exchanging charge. 

Ratchet smirked, his optics bright with hunger. “I told you so,” he said, not above a little taunting was he. 

“Then pardon me for not believing you,” Smokescreen said with a little laugh. He should have known. Rumors of Ratchet’s Party Ambulance days were apparently more fact than fiction. 

Ratchet’s glossa flicked over his lips. “You’re forgiven.” His free hand reached for Smokescreen’s bumper, a single digit tracing around his headlight. 

Smokescreen’s horn gave a feeble attempt at sounding off. A ripple of pleasure started at the base of his backstrut, zinged toward his spark, and then shot back down again. His valve cycled down on nothing as Ratchet lifted up and then dropped down, rolling his hips in a steady, sturdy grind against Smokescreen’s valve rim. 

His fingers clenched around Ratchet’s thighs. His other pede scrabbled against the berth, but he couldn’t get any more leverage. He was helpless to Ratchet’s favor, to Ratchet steadily driving him toward another overload. 

His engine revved, frame releasing another tremble. His valve was wet, sopping really, and dripping onto him didn’t help. His aft and groin were a mess. A dripping, hot mess and damn if Smokescreen didn’t love every minute of it. 

He would have to remember to goad Ratchet more often, he thought, and then it was chased away as Ratchet rocked his hips again, scraped over Smokescreen’s exterior node, and sent him spiraling straight into release.


	169. Brilliant Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus/Megatron  
> Universe: Animated  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: bdsm themes, bondage, sensory dep  
> Description: Megatron is sorely tempted to fail this test.

It is meant as a test, one Megatron is sorely tempted to fail.

How dare Optimus do this to him? How dare? 

It doesn’t matter that Megatron had asked. Or that he’d consented. Or that all he has to do is say a single word and his torment will cease. 

That Optimus has the audacity to bind him and then leave? It is unacceptable. 

Megatron has never felt so weak. So helpless. So… painfully aroused. Not that he can do anything about it. There’s an inhibitor plugged into his thoracic port, whisking away the overcharge the moment he gets far too close to overload. 

He can’t move, can’t touch himself, can’t provide any relief for the pleasurable ache in his lines. The constant, but subtle zap of the self-stimulant is a sweet torture. It’s keeping him on the edge, and the inhibitor keeps him from going over. 

It’s brilliant. It’s torture. And it’s all Megatron’s own fault. 

Because Optimus had given him an order before leaving with a parting kiss to Megatron’s helm. And Megatron, well, he’s obeying. As much as it pains him to do so. 

He shifts again, sending another shock through his substructure. Megatron grits his denta as another wave of pleasure rocks his frame. His spark whirls excitedly. 

This is unbearable.

The door swooshes open and Megatron’s helm lifts. His entire frame jutters with excitement, though his face doesn’t show it. 

“It’s about time you came back!” he growls as Optimus eases inside. 

His partner blinks and then breaks into a slow grin. “So patience is neither your strong suit nor your kink,” Optimus says. 

“Not when I’ve been abandoned for hours!” The device clicks and Megatron braces himself for another wave of charge to flood his frame. He is not disappointed, and bites down on a groan before Optimus catches him actually enjoying this. 

Optimus chuckles. “Megatron, I was gone for ten minutes. And I never even left the apartment.” 

“… what?” 

The tiny once-Autobot reaches up and cups his jaw. “As I said, patience is not your kink.” His thumb strokes over Megatron’s bottom lip before his other hand reaches for the inhibitor. “Do you want to overload?” 

His chains rattled. “Yes,” Megatron growls, and tried to make it sound more like a demand then a petulant whine. 

He’s not sure if he succeeded. 

Because Optimus has the audacity to smirk at him. Smirk. “All right,” he purrs, leaning in close so that Megatron can feel every puff of his ex-vents. “Then beg for it.” 

Oh. He is the spawn of Unicron. 

“Go on,” Optimus continues as his thumb strokes Megatron’s bottom lip again. “I’ll wait. I have all the patience in the world.” 

Blast him!

Megatron works his jaw. He wriggles in his chains. He bites down on a whine. He ignores the word that could end this all. 

He knows what Optimus wants to hear. 

But Megatron feels like being contrary for just a little while longer. He’ll show Optimus who has more patience. Ha!


	170. Told You So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Soundwave/Sunstreaker   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: bondage, sound-induced overload  
> Description: Sunstreaker swears that Soundwave looks smug.

“I really don't see the point of this,” Sunstreaker grumbles as he crosses his arms behind his helm. 

“Sunstreaker doesn't understand patience,” Soundwave replies with that even tone of his that Sunstreaker both loves and loathes. Right now, it's pretty damn annoying. 

He huffs a ventilation and rolls his optics. “It's not going to work, you know,” Sunstreaker retorts as Soundwave gestures for his hands and Sunstreaker hands them over. 

A quick snap binds them above his helm, all so that he doesn't move according to Soundwave. Pfft. Doesn't move? He's not gonna feel a thing. He's going to end up bored with a big, fat 'I told you so' to throw back at Soundwave. 

“It will.” After a testing tug to the chains keeping Sunstreaker bound to the massive speaker, Soundwave steps back as though to admire his work.

He doesn't know where Soundwave got the speaker from or why he even has it, but Soundwave had promised him a good time and Sunstreaker expects him to live up to that promise. Even if this fails and they go the old-fashioned route. 

“Hmph. We'll see.” Sunstreaker tilts his helm and gives his partner a cocky grin that would make Sideswipe proud. “Give it your best shot.” 

A low rumble echoes in Soundwave’s chassis, his version of a laugh. He pulls out a remote, fiddles with it, and then there’s a click as he presses a button. Sunstreaker waits, fidgeting against the speaker. 

“I don’t hear anything,” he says.

“Wait,” Soundwave replies. 

There’s a trickle of sound, faint at first, but growing in volume until it exists only at the edge of Sunstreaker’s hearing, which admittedly is nothing compared to Soundwave or Jazz’s. It’s not music, not really, but something he can’t quite explain. Behind him, the speaker is vibrating. Each dull thud, a fall of the move, is accompanied by a thump from the speaker. 

And then something curious happens, where the sound comes out of the speaker, and a wave of something hits Sunstreaker from behind. It vibrates against and through him, resonating through his entire frame. 

He shivers as his cables start to tingle, as his lines pump his fluids a little faster. His spark spins in excitement, sending signals of pleasure to his processor. 

“Oh,” Sunstreaker says, and fidgets against the speaker. 

The sound pulses a little faster, a little louder. Each drop is accompanied by a hard throb against Sunstreaker’s frame. Every loud trill is like fingers sliding between his seams and stroking his cables. Each hum sets his spark aflame. 

His fingers twitch. His frame trembles. Heat coils into his abdominal cavity and then spreads outward in an unexpected wave of bliss. 

Sunstreaker licks his lips and then looks at Soundwave, whose watching him through that impenetrable visor. Sunstreaker swears he looks smug, even as the hues of his visor darken to that deep crimson of arousal. 

“Okay,” Sunstreaker says, breathless as another wave of sound impacts his frame and makes him writhe. “I believe you.” He gasps when it feels like the drop reaches out, yanks fingers in his lines, and drags them toward his spark. 

Soundwave steps closer, their chests nearly touching. “Sunstreaker wants to stop?”   
“Mnnn.” His vents hitch. His spark dances excitedly. A warm shiver creeps up and down his backstrut. “Not until I’m done.” 

Soundwave laughs again. “Soundwave informed you thusly,” he says. 

“Yeah.” Sunstreaker cracks a grin, though it’s a wobbly one as his frame vibrates with need. “Ya sure did.”


	171. Balance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Rodimus  
> Universe: MTMTE S2  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: BDSM themes, Aftercare  
> Description: Punishment and care. Rodimus needs one as much as the other.

The last tremors of overload faded as Rodimus slumped bonelessly across Megatron’s lap. His aft ached, and he felt deliciously punished.

Rodimus purred as Megatron patted his aft one last time. Megatron’s other hand reached for the collar around Rodimus’ neck, so he tilted his head to give Megatron access to the clasp.

With a quiet click, playtime was over.

Rodimus stretched out his limbs, and absolutely did not squeak when Megatron lifted him to his feet with ease. Fool’s Energon or not, Megatron was still stupidly strong. And shows of strength were one of Rodimus’ many weaknesses.

“Well, that was good.” Rodimus wiped ineffectively at the transfluid on his groin. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up. Catch ya later.”

“Whoa.” Strong fingers wrapped around his wrist, keeping him from turning away. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Rodimus blinked and stared at Megatron. “To the washracks, like I said. Why?” His gaze flicked over Megatron from head to foot. His glossa flicked over his lips. “Want round two?” His spoiler halves wiggled suggestively.

“We’re not done with round one,” Megatron said, a note of exasperation to his voice as he reeled Rodimus back into his arms.

“Uh. You overloaded,” Rodimus said, pointing first to his co-captain and then to himself with his free hand. “I overloaded. My aft is sufficiently sore. I feel punished. What’s left?”

“The rest of it.” Megatron’s hands ran down Rodimus’ back, not erotically, but gently. “The part where I take care of you.”

“Uh.” Rodimus blinked and tried to wriggle backward. Megatron kept him trapped in the embrace. “That’s not what we do.”

Megatron looked down at him, his free hand gently grasping Rodimus’ chin to tilt his face up toward Megatron. “It is if we’re going to continue these sessions.”

Rodimus twisted his jaw. “I asked you to beat me, not treat me nicely.”

“In session,” Megatron corrected with a rub of his thumb over Rodimus’ jawline. “Afterward, I will care for you as a proper Dominant would.”

“But–”

“No buts.” Megatron pressed their forehelms together. “You need one as much as the other. That is the importance of balance.”

Rodimus squirmed. Megatron being nice to him was just weird. “Okay. Fine. What does that mean then?”

Megatron pressed a kiss to his head. “I’ll show you. We can start in the washracks.”

Rodimus wasn’t so convinced. But Megatron hadn’t steered him wrong yet, and the weirdest bit of all, Rodimus actually trusted him.

So he’d give it a try.


	172. Survival of the Fittest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Waspinator/Starscream  
> Universe: Animated  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: implied oviposition and impregnation, pheromones, sticky sex  
> Description: Starscream wanted an army, and didn't care how he had to get it.

In the end, it was about survival. 

Starscream refused to be defeated or abandoned or left for scrap. He would not be ignored or cast aside. He would not accept any of it. 

There were probably better paths, harder paths, he could have taken. Succumbing to the sweet temptation of Waspinator's pheromones was not one of them. Letting the creature Wasp had become 'mate' him was little better. But it was a choice, an option, and Starscream took it. 

Because buried in Waspinator's inane and incomprehensible chatter was the inkling of a plan. It was present in the ridiculous ease with which Waspinator lifted him, and the insectisoid mech's unmatchable strength. As well as his ability to survive that which would kill most mecha. 

“There will be more,” Waspinator rasped as he stroked Starscream's frame, lingering over his midsection and abdominal cavity. His field was a strange static-electric buzz against Starscream's, further proof of the changes Blackarachnia had wrought in him. 

Waspinator's pheromones permeated the air, sticky sweet, infecting Starscream inside and out. They made it easier. They made him slick and open. Ready. His spark spun faster. His vents rapidly cycled. Higher thought processing dulled, narrowing his desires to a select few. 

He didn't look down. 

He'd seen the thing Waspinator used for an interfacing unit. It was not a spike, but something borne of night purges. Starscream did not want to see it enter his frame, though he felt the blunt knob of it prodding at his valve. 

“Eggzzz,” Waspinator chattered as he groped at Starscream and made several uncoordinated thrusts. “Breed hive. Make hive. Make queen. Lotzzzzz.” 

Waspinator's coherency dissolved the more frantic his rutting became. His frame temperature skyrocketed, blasting Starscream. His fingers hooked in transformation seams, digging deep, scraping cables. The pain was lost to the need throbbing through Starscream's lines. 

He canted his hips back impatiently. “Frag me already, you fool!” he snapped. Or tried to. He wasn't sure how much of it came out words, and the rest static. 

Waspinator trilled an odd noise. He snapped his hips forward, and Starscream hissed as the predacon finally found his mark. He worked that thing inside Starscream, bulldozing a deep path to Starscream's ceiling node, and the channel to his gestational chamber, eagerly open thanks to the pheromones. Lubricant eased the way, but Starscream's calipers protested. Sensors pinged back pleasure. 

He had the pheromones to thank for that, too. Which was a good thing. He had no idea how many “eggzzzz” Waspinator planned to implant on him, but if it brought him an army, Starscream would put up with it. 

It was a small price to pay. 

“Zzzzzooon,” Waspinator cackled, thrusting harder, with wild abandon, like a beast. 

Starscream gritted his denta against the rising tide of pleasure. 

Yes. Soon.


	173. The New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Rodimus Prime, Ultra Magnus   
> Universe: G1, Season Three  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: It was all too much. Rodimus couldn't do this.

It was too much. 

Rodimus paced back and forth across one of the few ledges not destroyed in the battle that changed everything. His pedes fumbled over debris, some of which went skittering over the edge, clattering on its way down. He still felt ungainly in his new frame – too tall, too heavy, too well-armed, too much everything. 

The Matrix welcome him with open arms. It was confident. It was the only one. 

Rodimus Prime spun on a heelstrut. His vents stuttered. His spark felt like a wild flicker racing toward supernova. He was hot and cold. His hands trembled. 

It was all normal, First Aid claimed.

Rodimus trusted his new CMO, but First Aid was young. He'd never witnessed the ascension of a Prime, or the passing of the Matrix. What did he know? 

Everyone was dead. On both sides. Even Megatron, and he'd left someone even more unbalanced in his wake. 

Optimus was gone. Gone. And Rodimus was supposed to do this somehow. Without guidance or training. With an ancient relic against his spark that spoke in glyphs and riddles and songs and Cybertronian hieroglyphs. 

Rodimus Prime wrung his hands together. 

It was too much. He couldn't do this. 

“Rodimus?” 

He whirled, optics bleeding of their color. “Ultra Magnus! I, uh...” He forced a smile, but his clamped plating betrayed him. “Is something wrong?” 

Ultra Magnus lingered in the doorway, still larger than Rodimus despite his upgrades, and taking up most of the space. “I should be asking that of you,” he said. “I could feel the unrest in your field through the wall.” 

Rodimus winced. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I'll try to-- I mean--” He paused, took a deep ventilation, reminded himself he was Prime now. “I apologize. I will make an effort to control my field better.” 

Ultra Magnus stared at him for a long moment before he crossed the balcony until he stood in front of Rodimus, the both of them barely fitting on the narrow ledge. “I was friends with Optimus for longer than you know,” he said. 

Rodimus flinched at the reminder. “Yes. I am aware. If you need some time away--”

Large hands rested on Rodimus' shoulders, a warm weight that seemed to chase away the chill residing deep in his frame. “It is not that.” He lowered his helm, staring intently into Rodimus' optics. “I do not envy you the burden you now bear, Rodimus Prime. But you are not alone. I am here to assist you.” 

Rodimus worked his intake. “You are the worthy one. It should have been you,” he said quietly. It was a thought that haunted him, had been haunting him, since the moment reality set in after Unicron's defeat. 

“But I am not, because you are,” Ultra Magnus insisted, his hands squeezing Rodimus' shoulders, a gesture of comfort. “I believe that with every beat of my spark.” 

Rodimus' ventilations hitched. His internals warmed. He felt at once as though he was Hot Rod again, not the ungainly mech thrust into the frame of a Prime. 

“Thank you,” he said, or stuttered rather, composure in tatters. “I… well, your faith in me is worth its weight, Magnus.” 

Ultra Magnus smiled at him, just a small curve of his lips, but that, too, was worth its weight. Especially when he pulled Rodimus into a hug that chased away the last of the chill, further proving that he would not have to isolate himself as Optimus sometimes did. He wouldn't have to do this alone. 

Rodimus still wasn't sure he even could do this. But he couldn't discount Ultra Magnus' faith either. 

The least he could do was give it his best shot.


	174. Gamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: The twins catch Ratchet playing a very familiar game.

Sideswipe didn’t get three steps into their shared quarters before Sunstreaker slammed into his back. 

“Hey!” he snapped as a bright red scratch appeared on his chestplate. “What the frag is your malfunction!”

“It’s Ratchet,” Sideswipe said, sounding confused. 

Sunstreaker shoved him, forcing Sideswipe into the room. He rolled his optics. Ratchet showing up before them was nothing to gawk at. Idiot. Given their conflicting schedules, it was often a surprise who managed to get in the quarters first. 

Except once Sunstreaker got inside, his mouth dropped. Because there was Ratchet, kicked back in one of their chairs. He had a game controller in his hands, empty cubes of high grade on a tray to his right, and a plate of energon jellies next to them. On the large screen, Ratchet was in the middle of a heated round of Halo. 

“Ratchet plays?” Sideswipe whispered. 

“Ratchet wins,” Sunstreaker said, elbowing Sideswipe in his lateral seam. 

“Ow. Stop it!” 

“Both of you stop it,” Ratchet snarled as his fingers flew across the controller. “I need to concentrate, slag it.” 

Sideswipe inched closer to Ratchet. “Uh, since when have you played video games, Ratchet?” 

“Since I found out it was a great stress relief.” 

Sunstreaker’s optics tracked across the screen, willing to admit that he was impressed. Ratchet was good if the stats were anything to go by. And then he spotted Ratchet’s user name and gasped. 

He batted at Sideswipe’s arm to get his brother’s attention. “Sunny? What are you…?”

Sunstreaker pointed, and Sideswipe followed his line of sight. His optics widened and his jaw dropped, just as Sunstreaker’s had. 

“No way!” Sideswipe whirled toward Ratchet. “You’re BurytheHatchet? But– But–”

“You whip his aft at least three times a month,” Sunstreaker finished for Sideswipe who couldn’t stop stammering. “How?” 

“Wheeljack has a console, too. Who do you think built yours?” Ratchet never once took his optics off the screen. “He’s JackofallTrades on here, you know.” 

“But–But–” Sideswipe stuttered. 

Ratchet grinned. “What? You think you have the monopoly on fun?” His optics gleamed, full of energy and pride.

Sunstreaker’s spark skipped an oscillation. Surprise or not, this was welcome.

On screen, Ratchet’s victory was declared. He smirked, and set down the controller, dusting off his hands.

“So,” Ratchet said, “Which of you wants to challenge me first?”

Sunstreaker exchanged a glance with his brother.

“That depends,” Sideswipe finally said with a swagger and a swing of his hips. “What’re the stakes?”

Ratchet barked a laugh. “Loser does whatever the winner wants?”

“Deal!” Sideswipe vaulted into the chair, squeezing in beside Ratchet. “C'mon, Sunny. You can be the judge.”

“What do I get then?” Sunstreaker demanded, but he took the other chair anyway. He also stole a handful of Ratchet’s treats.

“The winner,” Ratchet drawled with a playful wink. “Fair is fair.”

Ooo. Sunstreaker rather liked those odds. Either way, he’d win.


	175. Virulent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl/Jazz, Ratchet/Sideswipe, Bluestreak/Sunstreaker, Wheeljack  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: handfeeding, biting  
> Description: This was the last time Prowl would allow Jazz to download a movie from an unconfirmed third party.

"This is for your own good, you know," Prowl said as he rooted around in the box on his lap for another cerulean energon gummy.  
  
He ignored the labored vents, rattling chains, and whines of a stressed engine. He reminded himself that this was necessary.  
  
Prowl located a blue gummy and held it to Jazz's lips. A visor glared back at him, baleful and edging toward red. Well, that wasn't good. Especially when lips peeled back over denta rather viciously.  
  
Prowl sighed. "Don't give me that look," he said, and nudged the gummy against Jazz's lips again. "These are your favorites."  
  
Jazz hissed. The chains rattled. They also creaked. Prowl gave them a concerned look, but they seemed to hold. For now. Jazz was apparently much stronger than he looked.  
  
"Come on now," Prowl urged. "The longer you resist, the longer we must keep you chained."  
  
Jazz growled and then snatched the goodie from Prowl's fingers. He nipped them in the process. It hurt, Prowl had to admit, but at least his fingers came away intact.  
  
Prowl examined the scrapes, but they were nothing a short buff wouldn't fix. Relieved, he rooted around for another blue gummy, but could only find a purple one. Alas.  
  
He held it to Jazz's lips. "You'll thank me for this later," he said. "Now open."  
  
Jazz's engine whined, but at least he obeyed this time. The glint of mischief in his visor made Prowl wary, and that caution saved his fingers.  
  
Once upon a time, Prowl would have enjoyed those denta. It was less enticing when Jazz meant him genuine harm.  
  
Prowl sighed again. "Hopefully, we'll laugh about this together later." He found another purple one and braced himself. "Open."  
  
Jazz grinned, feral and dangerous.  
  
Ten gummies, two scratched fingers, and one bruised thumb later, Prowl eased himself from Jazz's cell.  
  
"How'd it go?" Wheeljack asked as he accepted the box Prowl handed over.  
  
His door panels twitched. "With any luck, the virus will clear itself by morning. How is Ratchet faring with Sideswipe?"  
  
A very loud curse echoed from the next cell over.  
  
Prowl raised an orbital ridge.  
  
Wheeljack chuckled. "Believe it or not, that's a good sign. Just be glad you're not Bluestreak."  
  
They shared a look and glanced one more door down, to the ominously silent cell which contained Sunstreaker.  
  
"Someday, he's gonna tell me how he does it. Tame Sunstreaker, I mean," Wheeljack said wistfully, thumbing his mouthguard.  
  
"Let us hope we need never ask," Prowl said. "Let me know if you need another round."  
  
"Sure thing!"  
  
Prowl excused himself just as a muffled shout rose from Sideswipe's cell.  
  
Prowl shook his helm. This was the last time he'd let Jazz download a movie from an unconfirmed third party. Human-made computer viruses were unexpectedly... virulent.  
  
_An American Werewolf in Paris_ was not worth three suddenly feral Autobots.  
  
Not even for a second.  



	176. Little Wonders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus Prime, Ratchet  
> Universe: TFP  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: It started with the little things.

It started with the little things.  
  
The way his engine snuffled when we went without energon for too long. The way he grumped about all of the little pests running around under-pede, but would sit and patiently listen to Rafael anyway. The little scuff on his backplate that really needed buffing out, but Optimus had yet to bring himself to offer his aid.  
  
It did, however, provide an excellent excuse when Ratchet caught him staring one day.  
  
"You have a scuff," he said.  
  
Ratchet blinked at him. "A what?"  
  
"A scuff." Optimus gestured vaguely to his backplate. "When was the last time you visited the washracks?"  
  
"Hah. Those narrow things? Only Arcee fits in there." Ratchet harrumphed and turned back to the space bridge controls, leaning over to dig deep into the gears.  
  
He had to be doing that on purpose. Because there was aft, suddenly, and Optimus was supposed to be a gentlemech who didn't look.  
  
Except that he did.  
  
He wasn't sure if that counted as a 'little thing'.  
  
"You could ask for help," Optimus pointed out with a little cough of his ventilations.  
  
"Are you volunteering?" Ratchet's vocals echoed from within the console. He also muttered a curse, but even that was endearing as of late.  
  
Optimus' gaze wandered back to the medic's, well, back. The antenna protruding from Ratchet's pack wiggled as he did. It was oddly hypnotizing.  
  
"Yes, of course. I am always willing to lend a hand, old friend," Optimus replied. His faceplate heated.  
  
This was, hm, this was surprising, to say the least. He'd always been close to Ratchet, but recently, it somehow started being more.  
  
The gray aft, delightfully accented in red, wriggled. "Then get your aft over here and help me with this. I need more than two hands."  
  
Optimus blinked. "But the scuff?"  
  
"The scuff can wait. This spitting circuit can't."  
  
Very well then. Optimus eased himself to the other side of the console and lent a hand. As much as he was capable at any rate. There wasn't much room for him to work with.   
  
It was the little things, he noticed as Ratchet muttered another curse and made some reference to the poor quality of Earth-based materials.  
  
The little things that were developing into a rather large crush Optimus could have never expected.  



	177. Click-Clack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ultra Magnus/Wheeljack  
> Universe: TFP, Season Three  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: Wheeljack is more than a little impressed with Ultra Magnus' new hand.

 

The lack of necessary materials on Earth was never more apparent than now. Bumblebee's transformation cog had been repaired. Bulkhead's mobility returned to him. And Ultra Magnus was left with this... claw.  
  
He stared down at the makeshift limb and flexed the three digits. Open-close. Open-close. Well, he would be capable of the basics at least. It was better than no hand at all, he reasoned.  
  
Open-close. Open-close.  
  
"I kinda like it, actually."  
  
Ultra Magnus looked up. Wheeljack stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. It was a casual pose, his arms folded, the tip of one pede braced against the ground.  
  
"You would probably consider it a badge of honor," Ultra Magnus said as he dropped his gaze back to the claw-hand. Open-close. Open-close. At least, it moved.  
  
"Well, it ain't an insult, that's for sure." Wheeljack pushed himself off the jamb and strode inside. One hand lifted, brushing over the multitude of scars on his face. "I figure it's a trophy. Proof that I'm still alive."  
  
"A trophy," Ultra Magnus repeated. He couldn't hide the doubt in his tone.  
  
"Yep." Wheeljack plopped himself down on the edge of the berth, not that there was much room. His hip pressed to Ultra Magnus'. "A little practice, and I guarantee, you won't even miss your old hand."  
  
"I do not think I can share your enthusiasm," Ultra Magnus said with a little sigh.  
  
Wheeljack smirked. "You sure about that?" He grabbed Ultra Magnus' pseudo-hand, warm fingers enclosing it about the wrist. "Maybe I can change your mind, eh?"  
  
Ultra Magnus narrowed his optics. "I suspect that you are about to engage in some behavior that is against medical recommendations."  
  
The Wrecker laughed. "I don't know what I did to give you that impression." He drew Ultra Magnus' pseudo-hand toward his lips, ex-venting damp heat over the clawed digits. "I mean, you're right. But still...."  
  
Ultra Magnus' fingers twitched. He was actually surprised how much sensation he retained in them.  
  
"You don't have to prove anything to me," Ultra Magnus started to say, but the rest of his protest dissolved into nothing as Wheeljack drew one of the claw tips between his lips, flicking his glossa over the tip of it.  
  
Ultra Magnus' engine stuttered.  
  
"Hmm," Wheeljack said. "I was right. I do like it." He winked and moved on to a different clawtip, laving the entire thing with his glossa. "Kinda wondering what it'd feel like in me, too. Think you'll indulge me later?"  
  
Ultra Magnus worked his jaw, unable to ignore the lazy heat Wheeljack's boldness ignited in his groin. "So long as Ratchet approves."  
  
Wheeljack laughed. "Doc isn't gonna approve of half of what I got in mind. Trust me."  
  
Ultra Magnus twitched his hand, hooking one of his claws on Wheeljack's lip. When all it provoked was a spike in Wheeljack's field, and a rev of his engine, Ultra Magnus had to admit, maybe there was something to enjoy in this claw after all.  



	178. Things That Are Owed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus/Jazz  
> Universe: ex-Rid, post-Dark Cybertron  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Jazz is glad that Optimus is back.

"Have I told ya how glad I am that yer back?"  
  
Optimus chuckled and stroked his hand down Jazz's back, his former third arching beneath the touch not unlike an Earth feline. "Once or twice since this morning."  
  
"Oh, is that all?" Jazz grinned down at him. He had his hands folded under his chin, braced as they were on Optimus' windshields. "Mebbe I should tell ya a few more times. So ya know not to go gallivanting off and leave me by my lonesome again."  
  
Optimus folded his free arm behind his helm, propping himself up so that he could see Jazz better. "It was something of a necessity."  
  
"Nah, just somethin' ya told yerself was necessary," Jazz retorted and then rolled his shoulders. "I ain't mad atcha. I know probably better than most of them out there how much ya were startin' to ache."  
  
"Not mad, no, but you were hurt." Optimus let his hand rest on Jazz's backstrut. "I would apologize for that, but mere words are not enough to suffice."  
  
"Only if ya don't mean them. Kinda hard to say sometimes." Jazz's visor flashed at him, even as he wriggled. "Things been crazy here. You left me followin' Starscream, you know. How ya gonna make up for that?"  
  
A conundrum indeed.  
  
Optimus' hand shifted down to Jazz's aft, giving it a light pat. "I assumed you would tell me exactly how you intended for me to apologize."  
  
The aft beneath his hand twitched. "Right there's a good start."  
  
Optimus chuckled. "However did I guess?"  
  
There were certain benefits to being nearly twice the size of your lover. The ability to pick him up easily was one of them. Optimus leveraged himself upright, sliding Jazz into his lap with ease, with the added bonus of teasing a surprised 'eep' from Jazz in the process.  
  
"Now that's just unfair," Jazz said as wrapped his legs around Optimus' waist, grinding his closed array against Optimus' in the process. "You know how much I love it when ya toss me around like that."  
  
"All is fair in love and war, is that not what you told me once?" Optimus asked as he curled a hand around Jazz's helm, thumb sweeping across Jazz's lips. "I learned from the best."  
  
"Mm. That you did." Jazz pulled Optimus' thumb into his mouth, pressing it briefly between his denta. "You gotta lot of overloads to make up for, OP. I expect good ones."  
  
Optimus leaned down, replacing his thumb with his lips. Jazz made a muffled sound of delight, diving into the kiss as though no time had passed between them at all.  
  
"As many as I can manage and more," Optimus promised against Jazz's lips before he deepened the kiss, heat already winnowing its way through his lines.  
  
Jazz grabbed his helm, keeping him in place, the kiss turning deep and biting. His grip was tight, unrelenting, as if to say 'you'd better not leave this time.'  
  
Fortunately, Optimus had learned where he belonged. He had no intention of doing so again.  
  
He held Jazz closer, gentling the kiss as much as he was able. Wherever he went in the future, he would make sure that he did not leave Jazz behind again.  
  
He owed him that, and so much more.  



	179. Four's a Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream/Blurr/Rodimus/Knock Out  
> Universe: IDW, Ex-Rid  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Lots of implications, nothing on-screen   
> Description: Rodimus wakes up the morning after a very good night.

 

Overheating alarms were the first thing to stir Rodimus from a deep, restful recharge. He groaned and tried to roll away from his berth partner for some cooler ventilating air, but he was surrounded. On both sides. Odd.  
  
Rodimus tried to wriggle downward, but well, there was weight on his legs, too. That... was a problem.  
  
He forced himself to consciousness, peeling his optics open, a dull throb in the back of his processor reminding him of all the high grade and engex he'd consumed last night. It had been a lot. Ultra Magnus Disapproving Frown-lot.  
  
Ow.  
  
Staticky vision clarified into a blur of blue. Bright blue. No angles, but curved and polished plating. Wait. He knew those curves.  
  
Rodimus squinted. Blurr? Yep. That was Blurr. Which meant it was probably Starscream behind him. Wouldn't be the first time.  
  
Rodimus looked down. There was a bright red arm over his waist, ending in clawed fingers. Yep. That was Starscream. No wonder he was overheating. Starscream exuded heat in his recharge like no mech who had ever shared a berth with Rodimus.  
  
So that left... Rodimus wriggled until he could look down, through the tangle of limbs that he kinda-sorta identified as his own, Blurr's and Starscream's, to see another blur of red, darker red this time. Rodimus wasn't sure he knew this red.  
  
Well, no, that wasn't true. He must have gotten to know this shade of red pretty darn well last night if the pleasant ache in his valve was any indication. Hmm. Rodimus wracked his processor, but all of his memories were soaked in engex.  
  
He'd had a good time. He knew that much. He'd laughed and teased and had enough overloads to short out a couple of circuits, if the fatigue in his frame was any indication.  
  
"Stop squirming."  
  
Ahh. That was Starscream.  
  
"Can't," Rodimus said as he twitched. Starscream was ex-venting on his spoiler and it tickled. "M'hot."  
  
"Fragging speedsters," the Seeker muttered. His arm vanished from Rodimus' waist as the berth rustled and he rolled over. Or at least tried to.  
  
Red mech on Rodimus' legs was on Starscream's legs, too.  
  
"I'm buried in grounders," Starscream said with a sigh, but at least it was a happy one. He jiggled one of his legs, resulting in a horrendous screech of metal on metal. "Knock Out! Wake up!"  
  
Knock Out. Ohhh. So that was his name. Well, one mystery solved.  
  
Wait.  
  
Who was Knock Out?  
  
"Mrf," came the intelligent response.  
  
"Why are we yelling?" And now Blurr was online, albeit barely.  
  
"It's hot," Rodimus said.  
  
"I can't move my legs," Starscream snapped.  
  
"Do you Cybertronians not know what it means to sleep in?" Knock Out demanded with a crackle of static as he sat up, one hand rubbing down his faceplate before he looked down at himself. "Guh. Who scratched me?"  
  
"It was Starscream," Rodimus said with a smirk. He pulled his legs up, sighing in relief as sitting up gave his labored system some much needed cycled air. "Or maybe me?" He squinted at the mark on Knock Out's hood. "That does kind of look like my red."  
  
"And there's the benefit to being blue." Blurr laughed. He stretched his arms over his helm and nearly kicked Knock Out in the helm. "Oops."  
  
"Someone needs to get off this berth," Starscream said with a flick of his wings.  
  
Rodimus leaned over, poking him in the hinges. "I seem to remember that you invited me. So I'm a guest."  
  
"You don't have to tell me twice," Knock Out said, still brushing at the scratch in vain. "I don't even know what this is crusted in my knee. I'm going to the washracks."  
  
"I'll join you," Blurr said, and rolled over.  
  
Right off the berth.  
  
Rodimus didn't bother to stifle his laugh as plating clattered, and Blurr's flailing knocked down a lamp, alarm clock, and a stack of datapads.  
  
"He's fine," Starscream said. "It's not the first time."  
  
Rodimus chuckled and flopped back to the berth, stretching himself out in the newly abandoned space. "Need some help down there?"  
  
"Do you have something that can restore my dignity?" Blurr asked as he climbed to his pedes, rubbing at his helm.  
  
"There's no cure for that, sweetspark," Starscream said.  
  
"I can feel the love," Knock Out drawled. "Come on, Blurr. I'll fix that scratch for you."  
  
"At least someone cares," Blurr said with a pointed look to Starscream's back. The Seeker's wings didn't so much as twitch. Given that this was normal banter between the two, Rodimus wasn't at all concerned.  
  
They left, and Rodimus, with room to breathe now, distracted himself with snuggling against Starscream's back. "Look at that," he purred. "Now we have the berth all to ourselves."  
  
"I thought you were hot," Starscream said, but there was interest in his field.  
  
"Mmm. I _am_ hot, thanks for noticing." Rodimus nibbled on the edge of a wing, and saw Starscream's plating shiver.  
  
"You're ridiculous," Starscream retorted, but he did push back against Rodimus in plain invitation. "Don't you dare stop."  
  
Rodimus chuckled. "Are you this bossy with Blurr, too?"  
  
Starscream looked over his shoulder, a single optic gleaming. "Of course."  
  
"I always knew he was a masochist." Rodimus bit harder on a wingtip, making Starscream arch against him. "How long ya think we got before they come back?"  
  
Starscream's engine purred. "Long enough."  
  
Now that was exactly what Rodimus wanted to hear. He pounced. Fortunately, Starscream didn't seem to mind one bit. Rawr.  



	180. Never Spoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl/Sunstreaker  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: BDSM themes, nothing explicit  
> Description: There were three words Sunstreaker never said, because he wasn't sure what they meant.

There were three words never spoken. Not because they were anathema, but because Sunstreaker wasn't sure what they meant. He didn't know if he could recognize them.  
  
Trust was simpler. Easier to identify.  
  
When Sunstreaker bowed his helm and offered his wrists to Prowl, that was trust.  
  
When he heard Prowl's voice on the comm, giving him his orders, directing him to his next target on the battlefield, and Sunstreaker obeyed without thinking -- that was trust.  
  
When Sideswipe was laid up on a medical berth, with only Ratchet and Hoist there to keep him together, and Prowl came to Sunstreaker and quietly led him away, and he agreed to it -- that was trust.  
  
Sunstreaker could identify trust. It was the rest of it that lacked meaning.  
  
He knelt before Prowl, sometimes restrained by words alone, and it should have made him anxious. He should have looked for the nearest weapon, the nearest exit. He should have tensed to bolt, strike back, protect himself.  
  
Instead, he tilted his helm. He bared his intake. His ventilations quickened as the thin, delicate collar snapped into place. As Prowl's fingers lingered, briefly brushing over his main energon line.  
  
The glow of Prowl's optics was a promise. The embrace of his field offered even more. He called Sunstreaker beautiful, and he could believe it then.  
  
He trusted Prowl like no one else, save Sideswipe. He would guard Prowl with his very spark. He would bow to Prowl when he would bend his knees for no one else.  
  
Those were things Sunstreaker could qualify.  
  
Emotions. Feelings. Love. Those were things he didn't know. Those were things he didn't want to try and define.  
  
Trust was easier. Trust made sense.  
  
'I put my spark in your hands.' That was what Sunstreaker said every time he gave himself to Prowl, and that was worth more than its weight.  
  
Fortunately, Prowl understood.  
  
"Thank you for your trust," he murmured, each and every time, with a stroke to Sunstreaker's cheek. "I will treat it well."  
  
Sunstreaker's spark fluttered. This, right here, was enough for him.


	181. Jingle Jingle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jazz/Ratchet, First Aid  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: implications of stuff  
> Description: Jazz has found a new temptation for Ratchet that he just can't resist.

Of all the ways Jazz had tried to tempt Ratchet away from the medbay, and there had been many, many doozies, this was by far the most interesting.  
  
Every other mech in the medbay was staring, though Jazz's antics had to be nothing new by now.  
  
"Are those giant cat ears?" Ratchet demanded as he squinted at the furry abominations jutting from Jazz's helm next to his sensory horns.  
  
Jazz beamed at him. "Yep!"  
  
Ratchet gripped his wrench a little tighter, just in case. "And is that a collar around your neck?" A lacy, ribbony one with a pretty bow and a shiny bell.  
  
Jazz's visor flashed. "As observant as always, sweetspark." Half his visor lit in a wink. He then spun on a heelstrut and waggled his aft at Ratchet.  
  
Jazz had a tail. He had, somehow, affixed a long feline tail to his aft, at the end of which was another bow and bell to match the one on his collar.  
  
"And a tail," Ratchet said, faintly. His vents stuttered. His face grew hot.  
  
Someone snickered. It had better not have been Wheeljack. Because if anyone was to blame for Jazz's new accessories, it had to be him. Or Sideswipe. That red menace always had his fingers in whatever nonsense managed to cross Ratchet's medbay.  
  
"Why do you have a tail?" Ratchet demanded.  
  
Jazz spun around, the bell at his intake jingling happily. "Because I'm your kitty," he said brightly. His engine came to life, purring rather accurately, before he attached himself to Ratchet's front.  
  
He nuzzled Ratchet's windshield with his cheek. "And I'm dying for some attention. Aren't ya off shift yet?"  
  
Ratchet resisted the urge to touch. Those furry ears demanded to be stroked. He wanted to make that bell jingle.  
  
"Not yet," he said, and was that his voice striped in static and halfway faint?  
  
"But you need to _feed_ me," Jazz said with a pout. The way he said feed was positively obscene. He pawed at Ratchet's armor with -- Ratchet checked -- yep, those were talon-tipped fingers all right. Had to be glued on.  
  
"I haven't gotten any love or attention at all today. Ya neglect me," he added with another whine.  
  
Behind Ratchet, someone coughed into their palm. "Technically, your shift ended three hours ago, Ratchet."  
  
That traitor was First Aid. They would have words later.  
  
"I have work to do," Ratchet insisted, even as Jazz ramped up the purring. "Lots of, um, work."  
  
"Just go already!" Someone else shouted.  
  
"Yeah. Cause if you don't, I'll take him home," Wheeljack said with a snicker.  
  
Jazz's grin widened, and yep, there they were. He'd sharpened his denta, too. He was really committed to this cat thing, wasn't he?  
  
"You're going to be right on my heels if I don't, aren't you?" Ratchet asked as he rested a hand on Jazz's helm, stroking the length of one furry ear. It was surprisingly well-attached.  
  
Jazz turned his helm under Ratchet's hand, demanding more affection. "Ya know that I will."  
  
Ratchet knew when he was defeated. "You win this time," he said, and grabbed Jazz's hand, tugging him along. "All right, folks. Show's over. Back to work. Especially you." The last was directed at First Aid, who beamed innocently back at him.  
  
"Have fun!" First Aid chirped.  
  
"Oh, I'll make sure he does," Jazz promised.  
  
Ratchet rolled his optics at both of them. He'd let it slide for now, however. Because he had a pet who needed his undivided attention.  
  
He really wanted to see how loud he could make that bell jingle.


	182. Collisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl, Jazz, Starscream, Thundercracker, Skywarp   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: It wasn't everyday that everything Jazz thought he knew about Prowl had been turned upside down.

If anyone asked him later, Jazz would have no problems pointing the finger at Prowl. They wouldn't believe him, but that didn't make it any less true.  
  
It started ages ago, when Jazz first caught Prowl kissing Starscream. It predated the war and was an image capture Jazz had found buried in some archive. But it was real.  
  
It was _creepy_. Prowl was smiling. They both were. They looked happy. _Creepier_.  
  
Now, in the midst of war, neither of them were remotely so.  
  
How serious had they been? Jazz remembered wondering that. What did it even mean, given the war, given all the times Jazz had shared Prowl's berth and more. Stress relief, mostly, but also a spot of happiness in the midst of all the madness.  
  
He debated ever asking Prowl about it, but  curiosity won. He had to know.  
  
"It wasn't just Starscream," Prowl admitted, his gaze softening as he took the damning evidence and looked at it. "I mean, yes, it was. At first. But--"  
  
"--where there's one Seeker, there're two more behind him," Jazz finished. It was something the Autobots had all come to learn. "What is it now then?"  
  
Prowl's fidgeting silence was all too telling. Especially when it came with something akin to a blush.  
  
"Fine then," Jazz declared. "I wanna meet them. And I don't mean, here's my blaster and there's yours and let's trade bullets. I wanna meet them the way I'm guessin' you do."  
  
Prowl looked up from the image capture. "I have never betrayed the Autobots."  
  
"I didn't say ya did. I still wanna meet them."  
  
Prowl had learned better than to argue. He could have. They could have gone round the bend, long into the night. But all he did was touch the image capture again and nod.  
  
It took time, between one battle and the next, before they could meet. Weeks, as a matter of fact, but one day Prowl came into Jazz's suite and said, "Follow me," and so Jazz obeyed.  
  
They left the Ark and drove south. Prowl wandered over the dividing line a few times, jittery and agitated. Jazz almost felt bad about it, until he remembered the consuming jealousy.  
  
They met the Seekers at some rocky outcrop near the shore. The nearest humans were miles away, and Jazz hoped Prowl had picked a time no Autobot surveillance would cross their paths. The Seekers were already there, waiting, and Jazz frowned, because the moment they transformed, Skywarp vopped across the distance and tackled Prowl, peppering his face with kisses.  
  
"I missed you!" he chattered excitedly.  
  
Jazz's engine growled.  
  
"Skywarp, that's enough," Starscream snapped. "We have a guest."  
  
"Can you blame him? It's been weeks," Thundercracker said, but his gaze was focused on Jazz, dark and aggressive.  
  
"I don't care how long it's been," Jazz hissed. "I want answers."  
  
"We don't owe you any," Starscream snapped as Skywarp reluctantly climbed to his pedes, though he pulled Prowl with him.  
  
He didn't return to the side of his trinemates, however, as he should have. He stayed frustratingly close to Prowl, his fingers laced through Prowl's.  
  
"He was ours first," Thundercracker added.  
  
Jazz's fingers twitched. He resisted the urge to grab his blaster. "Yeah, well, he's mine now, too," he insisted. "So we're going to have to work something out."  
  
Starscream's optics narrowed, gaze shifting to Prowl. "Is this true?"  
  
Prowl inclined his helm. "It is. And he can be trusted."  
  
Starscream snorted. "Easy for you to say."  
  
"We know what he is," Thundercracker added.  
  
"There's nothing trustworthy about him," Skywarp muttered. His grip on Prowl's hand tightened, like he was going to pull Prowl behind him.  
  
"Hey! I resemble that remark!" Jazz said. He folded his arms under his bumper. "I don't like the idea of Prowl cavorting around with you three any more than you like the idea of me and him swapping cables every night."  
  
Thundercracker and Starscream blanched in unison. Skywarp twitched.  
  
"Jazz, don't antagonize them," Prowl said. "And Starscream, yes, it is easy for me to say. Because it is the truth. You wanted to end the war, didn't you?"  
  
Jazz huffed. "Yeah, like that's not a story I've heard before."  
  
Prowl shot him a warning glance.  
  
"Yes, I do," Starscream said.  
  
"Then we stand our best chance with Jazz's assistance," Prowl said. He stepped closer to Skywarp, bumping him with his shoulder. It was the most openly affectionate Jazz had ever seen him.  
  
"We win the war, and we no longer have to hide our relationship. We no longer have to sneak around, go weeks without seeing one another, or deliberately miss on the battlefield and risk the questioning of our loyalty," Prowl continued. "I do not know about you, but that is something I am willing to try for."  
  
Thundercracker lay a hand on Starscream's shoulder, but said nothing. A silent communication passed between them. Starscream worked his jaw before his wings drifted down from their offended position.  
  
"You know I hate it when you use logic on me," he said, but something in his stance softened. "Fine. We'll work with him. But I don't like it."  
  
Prowl's lips curved in a soft smile. "That's enough for now." His gaze shifted to Jazz pointedly.  
  
He sighed the largest sigh in his arsenal. He had a frustrating inability to say no when Prowl made sense. _Especially_ if it meant putting that smile on Prowl's face.  
  
"Fine," Jazz bit out. "And I can't believe I'm sayin' this, but, I agree with Starscream. I don't like it."  
  
"You don't have to. You just need to be civil," Prowl said.  
  
Jazz huffed.  
  
"Since that's settled, can we go now?" Skywarp asked, pressing harder against Prowl, his lips pulling into a pout that Jazz would never admit was adorable. "We missed you."  
  
Ugh. Gag him.  
  
Jazz spun on a heelstrut. He flicked a hand over his shoulder. "I'm out, Prowl. Ping me when you want to discuss whatever plans you and Starscream are cookin' up."  
  
"I will see you later, Jazz."  
  
The sound of three sets of thrusters firing up echoed behind Jazz. He stopped to turn and look, unsurprised that Skywarp was carrying Prowl. He didn't ask where they were going. He didn't want to know.  
  
He needed to process this. But not here. Away. Somewhere else.  
  
It wasn't everyday that everything Jazz thought he knew about Prowl had been turned upside down. And he suspected, today wasn't going to be the last.  
  
Primus help him.


	183. The Six of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bluestreak, Menasor, Motormaster, Drag Strip, Wildrider, Breakdown, Dead End   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: One by one, Bluestreak had grown to know them separately. Now it was time to know them as one.

It had taken some time to get used to the different personalities – all five of them. But it was no different than learning to balance the many quirks of the residents of the Ark. 

Besides, with five devoted and eager mechs courting him, Bluestreak could stand to be a little patient. 

Every one of them had their own charm. 

Dead End, while occasionally dreary to a fault, had a beautiful glossa, and not just for kissing. He had musical talent buried in the dark, and to hear him sing was haunting and entrancing. 

Drag Strip was as exacting about his paint job as Sunstreaker was. It made him single-minded and focused, and when he bent that focus onto Bluestreak, well. Ratchet might have had to replace a few circuits. 

Motormaster was endearing in how he treated Bluestreak so gently. He fumbled over his words when he got flustered, and was adorably clumsy. 

Once he got over the rage fed to him by Megatron, he was even a good leader. 

Wildrider was, in a word, fun. He was full of energy, ideas, and he had no fear. He let nothing hold him back and embraced life. It was hard to be anything but happy in his presence. 

Breakdown was utterly adorable. The only one of the five who let Bluestreak chase him. Even better, he let himself get caught. 

One by one, Bluestreak had grown to know them separately. 

Now it was time to know them as one. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Motormaster rumbled, every inch of him bristling with concern. 

“We can be pretty intense, ya know,” Wildrider added, bouncing on his pedes. 

Bluestreak grinned. “I'm sure.” 

“Then don't say we didn't warn ya,” Dead End grumbled. 

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” Bluestreak said. 

“Stunticons, combine!” Motormaster ordered. 

No matter how many times Bluestreak had witnessed a gestalt combine, it never ceased to amaze. How separately, they could stand on each other's shoulders, but still never reach the height of Menasor combined. Plating flexed and twisted, different from their root mode, and they towered over Bluestreak as one. 

Standing in their shadow, he should have felt ill at ease. But he didn't. Menasor looked down at him, cocked his helm and then lowered himself to one knee with a creak and groan of gears. 

“You Blue,” he boomed, slow and laborious. “You ours.” 

Bluestreak laughed. “To make it simpler for you to understand, sure. But you're mine, too. Just so you know. That's how it works.” 

Menasor chuckled, the deep vibrations rolling over and through Bluestreak, making him shiver. “We yours,” he agreed. 

He offered a hand to Bluestreak – Drag Strip's – and added, “Always.” 

Bluestreak grinned and lay his own hand over Menasor's fingertip. “Well, for now at any rate. I guess we'll have to see how much you impress me in the future. And if I impress you, too.” 

Another deep-rolling laugh echoed above him. Menasor vibrated from top to bottom, his armor shuffling and twitching. 

“We'll see,” he said. 

Bluestreak's smile stretched wider. Apart and together, either way, he figured he and the Stunticons were going to work out just fine.


	184. Here and Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Rodimus  
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: There was no time for words, only action, and the quiet promise made.

Sitting in the dark moping was the least of things he needed to do. But there was comfort in the dim and silence. It was as though time stood still, trapping him in the shadows. 

Until the door opened, revealing Rodimus in the entry, hall lights gleaming off his dented armor. 

“I said I didn't want to be disturbed,” Megatron growled. 

Rodimus said nothing, a first. Instead, he came inside, the door closing behind him, enclosing them in the dark. Rodimus' biolights flickered, offering the only illumination, save for Megatron's own. 

Megatron's engine dully rumbled. “Now is not the time for one of your speeches,” he hissed as Rodimus came closer. “I don't have--”

“Shh.” Rodimus rose up on his pedes and pressed a finger to Megatron's lips, his field muted and solemn like it had never been before. “Don't talk.” 

Megatron's optics narrowed. “Why not?” he asked, behind the gentle press of the finger as it lingered. 

“Because we don't have time for words. Not anymore.” Rodimus shrugged, but it was far from dismissive. “I was never good with those anyway.” 

Megatron cycled a ventilation. “Rodimus, if this is--”

“Megatron,” Rodimus interrupted again, only this time it was to grab Megatron's helm in both of his hands, pulling him down. “Hush.” 

He rose to the tips of his pedes, dragging Megatron down to him, and Megatron allowed it, his spark throbbing at the gentle brush of their lips. 

Oh. 

“Don't talk,” Rodimus murmured against his lips, before kissing him again, more firmly this time, intent in every flicker of his field. 

Megatron shuddered and wrapped an arm around Rodimus' narrow waist. He crushed his co-captain against him, their fields clashing, remarkably in sync. Rodimus' legs wrapped around his waist, hips rolling urgently, demanding. Megatron's other hand cupped his aft, supporting his weight. 

No words. Just this moment. Was that easier? Megatron didn't know. There wasn't time to debate. There was just this, here and now. 

So be it. 

Megatron gave himself to the kiss, to the quiet noises Rodimus made, and the warm embrace of his co-captain's field. If this was all he had, from now until the end, it would be enough. 

Rodimus was enough.


	185. Big Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Tailgate/Cyclonus   
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex  
> Description: Tailgate was half his size, but that did not stop him from pinning Cyclonus to the berth and drawing out several overloads.

The strangest part of it now was the ease with which Tailgate lifted and pinned him down. Cyclonus admitted that it made his spark throb faster, and arousal shoot through his systems. 

While it could be argued that Tailgate was a touch too confident now, Cyclonus reaped the benefits of it. 

Tailgate was half his size, but that did not stop him from pinning Cyclonus to the berth and drawing out several overloads. Cyclonus panted through two of them before he entirely knew what happened. 

Tailgate's visor was bright, his energy field crackling with charge. His engine rumbled as he drove into Cyclonus, spike cleaving a path of pleasure. 

Cyclonus' claws tore furrows in the berth above him. His hips creaked in Tailgate's grip, but not once had he been dented. For all of Tailgate's newfound strength, he had yet to cause Cyclonus any harm. 

He had also yet to overload tonight. With the strength came an unexpected stamina. Or perhaps he was simply that determined to see to Cyclonus' pleasure. 

Another deep thrust pulled a low moan from Cyclonus' intake. The berth covers ripped. His hips tried to rise into Tailgate's motions, but Tailgate's grip was unbreakable. Cyclonus remained pinned, subject to the delightful glide of Tailgate's spike over his internal nodes. 

“You feel so good,” Tailgate gasped, his hips pumping, his fingers flexing to the same rhythm. “I could do this all night.” 

Cyclonus believed him. He shivered as another wave of pleasure zinged down his spinal strut and sent static crawling from beneath his armor. 

“You must overload eventually,” Cyclonus said with a groan, his internals tightening. Desire coiled in his array, charge snap-crackling through his lines. 

Tailgate chuckled. “You first, Cyclonus.” 

“I… mmm… have already. Multiple times to my knowledge.” 

“A few more won't hurt then.” Tailgate slowed his thrusts, rocking into Cyclonus, dragging his spike over each internal node with a zap of charge. “As many as you can manage. I could watch you overload forever.” 

Cyclonus shivered again as his entire frame tingled. His vents stuttered. He struggled to cycle air, heat building in his frame. 

“Though watching you overload right now is a good start,” Tailgate continued with an almost mischievous note. He pushed deep, grinding against Cyclonus' ceiling node. 

Cyclonus moaned, his valve rippling around Tailgate's spike. His nodes fired pleasure one after another 

No. He changed his mind. 

Tailgate's unexpected strength was normal compared to his new confidence in the berth. Not that Cyclonus complained. Not at all. 

In fact, as he tripped over the edge into his third overload of the night, Cyclonus was quite grateful indeed.


	186. Legacies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet-centric  
> Universe: Amalgam  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Ratchet never wanted to be a medic.

Ratchet never wanted to be a medic. 

He knew he was suited for it. He'd been built for the medical field. 

His genitor was a surgeon. His carrier was a frame specialist. His tertiary spark donor was an experimental mechanical engineer. 

Ratchet had been sparked with the expectations of medicine upon him. It was a heavy burden to bear for a sparkling curious about everything, but always pointed in the direction of mechanica textbooks and documentaries. 

He remembered craving affection, but his parents not quite understanding what it meant. They knew, in theory, but it was not more important than The Plan. Instead, Ratchet was offered praise, but only if he excelled at their approved activities. 

He had the best, he always had the best as he matured. The best upgrades. The best tutors. The best energon. The best training. He had no friends; he had no allies. 

Ratchet never wanted to be a medic, but it was the only thing of worth he could do. And he was good at it. Of course he was. Every frame, every upgrade, every download and uplink – all had been planned to make him so. 

He was their future, and he was worthless if he did not adhere to it. 

He thought such a thing was normal. That excellence earned you praise, and success earned you love. Warmth was a reward for proper behavior and high scores. 

Ratchet was their legacy. 

The only argument Ratchet ever won was his decision to attend the more public Iacon Academy as opposed to a private instruction for the elite. He'd won that argument thanks to his tertiary spark donor, who felt that contact with his peers could only improve his performance with patients at a later date. 

Without constant supervision, Ratchet faltered. There was praise to be found here, with or without success. A little engex, a touch of Syk, and he could fly without wings. He found acceptance in the berth of whatever mech would take him. He soaked up interfacing for the contact he craved. 

He dragged himself to class, and forced himself to excel, no matter the fatigue, or the burnout, or the hangovers. Every evening comm with his parents left him feeling more strained than before. 

He was on the end of his cable. 

Making friends with Wheeljack was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to him. It was the first time anyone wanted him for being him, and not for what he could do. 

His parents disapproved. 

It was an argument that Ratchet didn't win, but there was nothing they could do when Ratchet came into his own. They might have made him into their legacy, but that didn't mean Ratchet had to be around to shine for them. 

He graduated with the highest marks. He was given a prestigious internship, and later, given one of the highest honors a medic could earn. He became chief medic to the office of the Prime, and there wasn't a single moment of it that he could remember where he didn't loathe his function. 

He started a clinic in the slums. He repaired those who couldn't pay him, all the while thinking of how horrified his genitors would be, how they'd consider it a waste. How he should be serving the nobles, the politicians, the highest of castes. That was his purpose. That was what he'd been made to do. 

Ratchet never spoke to them again. 

“If you drain all the energon out of someone, they'll die,” Ratchet remembered lamenting. “But there's something to be said about breaking their spark, too.” 

Ratchet never wanted to be a medic. 

But in the midst of war, surrounded by the dead and dying, with the sparks of those he cared about on the line – he was glad he had something to offer them. He was glad he had the skills. 

He hated what they made him a little less.


	187. Erasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Trepan and Chromedome  
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Was he sure? The answer, for Chromedome, was yes.

“Now are you sure you want to do this?” Trepan asked. 

He almost sounded concerned, though it fell flat given the way he circled Chromedome like some kind of predator. 

Chromedome nodded. “Yes, I am.” 

“Yes, but… you do know that once you do, there is no going back?” Trepan's tone edged toward condescension, as it always did when he thought Chromedome was being particularly obtuse. 

Chromedome's plating drew tight. “I know.” 

“Because I'm brilliant, but not even I could fix this,” Trepan continued with a wide flourish. “Once you are done, they will cease to exist to you. The pain will be gone, but so will everything else.” 

Chromedome's spark fluttered. “That's not a good argument against. Besides, it's not like I'll know there's anything to regret.” 

“Mmm. You do make for a fine point.” Trepan's fingers flicked dismissively. “Very well. Since I can't convince you otherwise…?” He trailed off, raising an orbital ridge. 

“You can't.” 

“Then let's begin.” Trepan circled behind Chromedome. “You'll want to inject here, at an angle, so your injectors won't snap.” His fingers brushed the back of Chromedome's neck, sending a chill down his spinal strut. 

Chromedome shivered. “Snap?” 

“Only if you flail, so you'd best be gentle.” Trepan shrugged. “After that, well, I think you know the rest. Extend your injectors.” 

Shhnk. 

They were so new as to still itch. 

“Now begin. And remember concentrate.” 

Was he sure? 

Yes. 

Chromedome slid the injectors into his own processor and began to edit. Memory after memory. Smile after smile. Arguments and embraces. Promises and lies. Good times and bad. 

But most of all, a single name. 

Gone. 

The needles slid free. Chromedome slumped with exhaustion. He felt hollow, but free. 

“Now Chromedome.” Trepan slid around in front of him. “What can you tell me about Mach?” 

Chromedome looked up, confused. “Who?” 

Trepan grinned. “Oh. No one of consequence. Just a ghost. Congratulations, by the way, you passed.” 

“Passed what?” 

“Only the hardest test of all.” Trepan offered him a hand. “Come along now. Let's get you some fuel.” 

Chromedome accepted the offer and was pulled to shaking knees. “My head hurts.” 

“Yes, it will for a while yet. But don't worry, that will pass.” 

Chromedome made a noncommittal noise and followed after Trepan as if in a fog. 

Still, he wondered, who the frag was Mach?


	188. Perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Hook and Scrapper  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: dark themes   
> Description: Scrapper's was a voice they had all learned to obey.

“Hook.” 

Four Constructicons scattered, some so fast that tools clattered in their wake. They vanished from the common room with a speed few knew them capable, leaving Hook alone. His armor clamped tight, though he still stood tall. 

He pretended he hadn't heard that tone of voice, the one that they had all learned to obey. It didn't matter. Hook's designation was the one which had been uttered. There was no point in fleeing. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” Hook asked, careful to keep his tone polite and neutral, even as he edged the plans he'd been editing underneath another datapad. 

It wasn't his fault they needed adjusting. Sometimes, he swore his fellow Constructicons wouldn't know a complete schematic if it grew legs and danced around in front of them. 

Scrapper all but loomed behind him, for all that he was only a few inches taller than Hook himself. His visor seemed to point like a laser between Hook's shoulderblades. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Working on a private project,” Hook said, dismissive. “As I believe I am entitled to do when I am not on shift.” 

Scrapper edged into Hook's peripheral vision, so close that their fields overlapped and Hook got his first taste of Scrapper's disapproval. It was bitter. 

“This is not a private project.” Scrapper reached over Hook, snagged the edge of the poorly hidden datapad, and pulled it into view. “These are my schematics that I finished this morning that I have to Scavenger to begin preparing for. I do not recall sending them to you.” 

Hook bristled. “Because they are not complete! I had to bribe Scavenger to give them to me. Bribe him!” He resisted the urge to snatch the datapad back from Scrapper. “You do this every time, Scrapper. There are miscalculations, there are imperfections, there are--”

“Is,” Scrapper corrected, “nothing wrong with these schematics. They are suited for their purpose. And yes, they use substandard materials.” His voice was cold, and even. 

Hook tried not to quiver. There was always something in the press of Scrapper's field, something that demanded obedience, that sent trills through Hook's spark and called to the coding that allowed him to combine with the others. 

He hated that coding. 

“I-I still find it unacceptable!” Hook retorted, reaching for indignation and landing somewhere closer to compliance. He hated arguing with Scrapper because that fragging coding always left him without a comeback. 

Scrapper slid the datapad into his subspace, away from Hook's twitching fingers, and grabbed Hook's hand instead. “That is not your choice to make, Hook. It is mine. Now...” He tugged Hook's hand, pulling him closer. “There is still the small matter of your disrespect.” 

Another ripple coursed through Hook's plating. Sometimes, he wasn't even sure if it was excitement or dread. Especially since it wouldn't keep him from making corrections in the future. 

Hook braced himself. “Very well then,” he said, clinging to his arrogance. It was all he had left anymore. “Do your worst.” 

Scrapper hummed a laugh. “I intend to. Let's go.” 

There went that tone again, the one that sent four Constructicons scurrying out of the workroom. 

Hook sighed and followed.


	189. Promises and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ultra Magnus (implied Rodimus and Megatron)  
> Universe: MTMTE, post-Dark Cybertron  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: infidelity  
> Description: Ultra Magnus never meant for this to happen.

The Lost Light was an exceptionally large ship. Even so, when in the midst of trying to keep a secret, it was suddenly, exceedingly tiny. Especially since he never expected to find himself needing to conceal the truth. 

Ultra Magnus never meant for this to happen. He wasn't even sure he knew exactly how or even why. 

No. That would be lying to himself, and he was already lying to Rodimus. He couldn't pass the barrier into spinning his own falsehoods as well. 

Ultra Magnus knew how and when it happened. It was the why which still concerned him. 

Why had he allowed himself to get close to Megatron? Why had he allowed quiet moments and quiet times and that first kiss? Why had he leaned in for a second and then a third? Why had he taken it further? Why had he pressed Megatron to the berth, deepened the kiss, and indulged himself? 

Why, why, why. 

These were the questions that haunted him. 

The quiet smile the morning after. The slanted, aside look when no one else was watching. The spark of something akin to hope. 

Ultra Magnus hated to shatter it. But it was a lie. As false as everything else evoked. 

Ultra Magnus was with Rodimus. They were in a relationship. There were certain expectations to mechs within a relationship, including fidelity and honesty. 

Or were they? Sometimes, Ultra Magnus wasn't sure. Words were never spoken. Promises were never made or commitments offered. One night, Rodimus had climbed into his berth, and he never quite left it after that. 

Ultra Magnus had not been upset to have him there. Whatever undefinable element that existed between he and Rodimus was very welcome. As both Ultra Magnus and Minimus Ambus. 

The addition of Megatron was unexpected. 

Now he had this secret, this lie of omission, this indiscretion. It nestled inside of him, an itch he couldn't scratch, an invasion of acid rain, and a nagging at his cortex. 

There are reasons, Minimus Ambus, that you are not fit to wear that name. And this, right here, is now one of them. 

The most obvious course of action was to inform Megatron that nothing further could happen. Well, nothing even more further. Then, he would have to go to Rodimus, confess his sins, and seek forgiveness. Certainly, there should be no difficulty in obtaining it. Rodimus had his own ledger. 

But then, so did Minimus. A certain engagement with Chief Tyrest came to mind. 

A part of him balked however. 

He could not explain this strange and new attraction to Megatron, but that did not mean he was willing to surrender it. He felt, despite all that Megatron was and is, that they had a certain rapport. 

Rodimus' value was not to be discounted either. Ultra Magnus was not interested in letting Rodimus go either. 

It was a quandary. It was a mess. It was chaos. 

Ultra Magnus did not like any of those things. He especially did not like being stuck in this predicament, this mess of his own making. 

He did not like this choice. 

He'd agreed to meet both Megatron and Rodimus, somehow, at the same time and on the same night. He had, in the chaos, confused his own schedule, and therefore, set himself on the path to truth. 

A choice would have to be made. 

The Lost Light was a very large ship, but Ultra Magnus still had nowhere to hide. And he was running out of time.


	190. Quadrangles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream/Blurr, Rodimus/Knock Out, Starscream/Rodimus  
> Universe: IDW, far distant future of Truth in Advertising  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: sticky sex, sex toys  
> Description: Blurr and Knock were too busy arguing to realize they missed one Pit of a good show.

Starscream should have known letting Blurr and Knock Out have the controls was the wrong choice. When those two got into it, there was little which could distract them. Not even the sight of their very attractive partners speared on the same double-ended toy.   
  
"Are they ever going to stop arguing about it?" Rodimus demanded as a sharp gasp escaped his lips. His plating shivered, loosening to allow heat to escape from his substructure.   
  
Starscream snuck a glance at their respective partners, who fumbled the control between them, gesturing angrily at the different buttons on it. "Probably by the time we're done using this," he said.   
  
Rodimus chuckled and tightened his grip on Starscream's shoulders, rolling his hips into a deeper thrust. Starscream shivered as the double-ended spike worked against his ceiling node, grinding hard on the sensitive nub.   
  
They didn't need the remote after all. The ridges and knobs and whorls on the spike were enough for both of them. Whatever other tricks this toy had buried in its circuitry, maybe they'd never know.   
  
"We're going to finish without them. Again," Rodimus commented with another stolen glance.   
  
"Their loss," Starscream said. Only to twitch. That was a decidedly different sensation. “Do you feel that?"   
  
Rodimus barked a laugh. "If you mean the spike then allow me to say 'duh'."   
  
Starscream rolled his optics. "No, you brat. It's _hotter_." 

He braced himself for the inevitable ‘of course I am,’ but for once, Rodimus surprised him. The baby Prime paused, concentrating, and then his optics brightened.   
  
"I think you're right." He stared down between their bodies. "Huh. Now it's getting cold."   
  
Indeed it was. Starscream looked at their respective partners curiously. Blurr had a firm grip of the remote, but Knock Out's finger jabbed at the buttons on it in no particular order.   
  
"Well, I guess we figured out what it does," Rodimus said with a crooked grin.   
  
"Too bad they'll never stop arguing long enough to realize it." Starscream chuckled.   
  
Rodimus started moving again, jostling the end of the spike within Starscream. "Good thing we don't need either of them to have fun, right?"   
  
"You're damn right about that."   
  
Let them argue until the end of the night. It wasn't Starscream's fault if they missed the show. And what a show it was. 


	191. Perfection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sunstreaker, Megatron  
> Universe: AU  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Self-Service in a mirror, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism  
> Description: Sunstreaker doesn’t care who’s on the other side, while Megatron pays whatever is necessary to watch.

It didn't matter who was on the other side. It never mattered. Sunstreaker didn't ask, didn't care. This wasn't about them. This was about himself, about the way he looked in the mirror, perfectly polished, perfectly shined.   
  
This was about the reflection of himself, the gleam of lubricant glittering deep within his valve, the bright jut of his spike, gold inlays glittering along the length. It was the way he gripped himself, slow and methodical, or the way he teased his fingers around his rim and flirted with his ring of exterior nodes. Small, but effective.   
  
His optics glowed in the mirror. He didn't look down at his frame. Instead, he watched the mirror, tracking the motion of his fingers. He didn't use toys. He didn't need them. His hands were good enough, perfect enough, to suit his needs. He knew exactly how to touch himself, how to excite his nodes, how to drag out the pleasure.   
  
His ventilations hitched. His faceplate colored with heat. He looked wanton as he gnawed on his bottom lip, but that was okay. Because it didn't matter who was on the other side of the mirror. They were the lucky ones to see Sunstreaker like this, genuine and uninhibited.   
  
They were lucky.   
  
Sunstreaker groaned down deep, fingers tracing his rim again and again. He painted lubricant over his nodes, watched it glisten as it moistened his rim. His biolights glittered, the perfect color to accentuate. He made sure of that.   
  
His spark fluttered. His hips moved, rocking slowly, so slowly, into the pleasure he painted over his own frame.

This was perfect. He was perfect.   
  
Sunstreaker's gaze lifted, catching his own optics in the mirror, dark with desire. His lower lip was swollen, imprints of his denta visible. His glossa wet his lips, making them glisten.

He found and pinched the cluster of tiny nodes at the caudal end of his valve. The smallest whimper escaped him. His hips rocked forward.   
  
Perfect.   
  
**~Bonus~**  
  
Sideswipe raised the fee with every subsequent session. And every time, he paid in full. He found some way to come up with the credits because this had to be witnessed. For what was art worth if it wasn't seen?   
  
Through the glass, Sunstreaker finally reached for his spike, backstrut arching as he fingered the tip of it.   
  
Megatron's engine revved.   
  
Yes. Worth every credit, every time, he thought, and reached for his array, intending to copy Sunstreaker’s actions down to the last squeeeze. 


	192. Foreplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Cyclonus/Drift  
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Cyclonus supposed it was the effort that mattered.

It started with meditation. Supposedly to help him relax. Drift brought in some kind of battery operated candle and a portable music player, a soft, wordless tune pouring from the speakers.   
  
But the candles flickered far too much for Cyclonus' comfort, and the music couldn't seem to decide on an appealing scale.   
  
A massage came next, but despite his best efforts (re: most painful, Drift apparently had the hands of a tank with the same amount of subtlety), it too went the way of failure. How could a mech who wielded blades so effectively have such inelegant hands? Then again, he did tend to wave his blades around as though they were giant knives and not swords.   
  
Yes, there's a difference.   
  
"You know," Drift said, finally, clapping his hands together. "Maybe what you don't need is foreplay, but for me to just dive right in."   
  
Cyclonus blinked. "Beg pardon?"   
  
Drift dropped to his knees and shuffled forward, his hands gently resting on Cyclonus' upper thighs. "How about you just open for me and maybe I can relax you the old-fashioned way?" He grinned, with echoes of their captain in that self-assured grin, and Cyclonus had to admit, he was convinced by it.   
  
Drift's hands were very warm. Soothing, also, where they stroked a circular pattern ever closer to Cyclonus' panels. It was a tease as much as it aroused him. Perhaps Drift had a point.   
  
Enough foreplay. Perhaps barging straight into the main event would be more expeditious.   
  
"I promise you won't be disappointed," Drift said with a pointed flick of his glossa over his lips. " _Or_ I guess we could go back to meditation if that's what you'd prefer...."   
  
In Primus' name, no.   
  
Cyclonus triggered his panels to open. The main event it was.   
  
  



	193. Fits of Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Brawn/Perceptor  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: A piece of misbehaving machinery receives the force of Perceptor’s anger, and Brawn falls further head over heels.

Everyone thought Ratchet had the monopoly on who cursed the most creatively when he was angry, but clearly, no one had ever heard Perceptor let a piece of ill-behaving machinery have it.   
  
Some of those insults Brawn was quite sure didn't actually make sense. But he guessed it didn't matter since the words kept spilling from Perceptor's lips, faster than he could track. He caught maybe every fourth word or so.

The funniest part was that Perceptor's field didn't even come across as agitated. Sure, it was a bit prickly, but Brawn had felt it far more furious when Percy caught Wheeljack in the middle of a flubbed calculation.   
  
Brawn blinked at the scientist and clutched the cubes he'd brought a little closer. Should he interrupt or...?  
  
Perceptor half-snarled, spat another insult at whatever it was that was misbehaving, and spun on a heelstrut away from it. Like one might if they were sulking. He huffed with every stomp of his feet.   
  
"Wow," Brawn said, hoping he wasn't tugging on the tail of the tiger here. "What did that thing ever do to you?"   
  
"That thing," Perceptor said with an amazing amount of venom in two words, "had the indecency to incinerate every last one of my samples. Do you know how long it took me to collect them?"   
  
"Awhile, I take it."   
  
"A very long while," Perceptor corrected with a sniff. "There are some samples I can never retrieve again."   
  
"Oh, I see." Brawn dared shuffle a little closer, into the furthest edge of Perceptor's field. "That sucks. Want me to beat it up for you?" He looked at the machine and felt a grin coming along. It looked like it could take a beating and them some. Could be fun.   
  
Perceptor blinked at him before he huffed the tiniest of laughs. "No, I still need it. Perhaps Wheeljack can fix it. But if he can't, I may take you up on that offer. It would certainly deserve it." He shot a glare in the machine's direction.   
  
Wow, that was kind of... adorable actually.   
  
"Just let me know. Energon?" He offered the cube.   
  
Perceptor cycled another ventilation, his armor smoothing down. "Thank you, Brawn." His field calmed further, which proved that even a nice gesture helped sometimes.   
  
"You're welcome."   
  
Yep. Adorable. 


	194. Mixed Reviews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream/Deathsaurus  
> Universe: IDW MTMTE/Ex-RID AU  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: sexual themes  
> Description: Starscream has a request which Deathsaurus is delighted to receive.

“So. I have a question."   
  
Deathsaurus blinked and turned toward the berth. "Will I like this question?"   
  
Starscream propped his helm up on his fist, his elbow pushed deep into the mattress. Behind his shoulders, wing flaps fluttered. "It depends," he said, with that glitter in his optics Deathsaurus had learned to be wary of.   
  
Still. That glitter generally meant a good time in some shape or form.   
  
Deathsaurus inclined his helm. "Ask away."   
  
Starscream's lips curved in a slow, salacious smirk. "Ever fragged in your alt-mode?"   
  
Deathsaurus' vents stalled. Well, that was... ahem, not the question he was expecting? Though he should have, because he'd been asked it before, or had, in several disastrous attempts, made the offer to past lovers. Response was usually mixed.   
  
"What answer is not going to get me treated like some depraved monster?" Deathsaurus asked.   
  
Starscream's glossa swept across his lips. His free hand drifted down his frame, and flirted with his panel. "The one I'm hoping means you might be willing to bend me over this berth," he purred.   
  
Deathsaurus' vents started up again, his cooling fans joining the chorus. "Well..." He coughed into his palm, and knew he'd failed to act nonchalant when the glitter in Starscream's optics darkened. "I have, yes, though responses as to whether or not it is acceptable have been, hmm, less than encouraging?"   
  
Starscream pushed himself upright, the heel of his palm shoving harder against his panel. "What say we try for ourselves and see if we can't change your luck?" His field rolled into the room, heavy with arousal.   
  
He must have been thinking about this for a long time.   
  
Deathsaurus' spike knocked against his panel. He ex-vented a ragged burst of heat. He thought, maybe, he should decline. But that predatory look on Starscream's face made him think that maybe this time, was going to be a _lot_ different.   
  
"All right," he said, and grasped for that mantle of confidence he'd left somewhere on the floor behind him. "But don't say I didn't warn you." 

Going by Starscream’s smirk, Deathsaurus had the feeling his warning was more than a little irrelevant.

Primus help him.   
  



	195. Interruptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Skywarp, Thundercracker, Starscream  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: For all that Starscream was the master of manipulation, both of his trinemates could play him like a fiddle.

"Starscream. Starscream. Star. Stars. _Star_. _**Star**_. Starshine. Screamer. Screamy. Starscream. Star. Starbaby. Star--"   
  
Starscream threw down his stylus and whipped around in his chair, his optics lit with murder. "Can I help you?" he demanded as his wings hiked upright and his field rose up, ready to lay the smack down.   
  
Predictably, Skywarp was not at all dissuaded. "You promised you'd come play with us," he said, folding his arms over his chassis. His lips pulled into a pout and no.   
  
No, Starscream was not going to be swayed by that pout.   
  
"Play," he repeated. "I am in the middle of some complicated equations, Skywarp. I do not have time for play."   
  
"But you did promise." That deep voice emanated from the doorway and behind Skywarp's shoulder. Starscream did not have to lean to the side to know Thundercracker stood there, his gaze a lot more penetrating than Skywarp's. "And you've been ignoring us for the better part of a week."   
  
Starscream sighed and pinched his nasal ridge. "What I am doing here is important."   
  
"And we aren't?"   
  
There went Skywarp's small, hurt voice and damn it. With the pout, it was doubly effective, even though Starscream knew it was as calculated as Skywarp's many, many warps.   
  
Starscream could argue that what he did was for the good of the entire trine. That it was necessary. That it might mean the difference between victory and an agonizing defeat.   
  
But they were both correct. He did promise, and he had been ignoring them.   
  
Starscream stood. "Very well," he said. "What did you have in mind?"   
  
Skywarp's face went from weepy to elated in the span of a sparkbeat. He giggled and threw himself at Starscream. "It doesn't matter," Skywarp said happily. "So long as you're there."   
  
"I refuse to play Twister again," Thundercracker said as he turned to step out of the room.   
  
Skywarp laughed.   
  
Starscream shook his helm. For all that he was the master of manipulation, both of his trinemates could play him like a fiddle. Fortunately, he wouldn't want it any other way.   
  



	196. Pillow Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream, Wheeljack  
> Universe: Ex-RID  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Wheeljack builds Starscream a safe place to recharge.

  
"What is this?"   
  
Starscream didn't have words for the... contraption that had been assembled in his main room. There were ropes and swaths of fabric, and he swore he saw pieces of his futon, his chair, and his couch, along with his berth cover? And pillows. More pillows than he was sure he owned.   
  
"It's a pillow fort!" Wheeljack said with a grand gesture. His vocal indicators lit up excitedly.   
  
Starscream stared at him. His mouth formed words, but the only one which managed to emerge was, "Why?"   
  
Wheeljack dropped his arms. "Ya said you were havin' trouble recharging."   
  
"I did." Starscream folded his arms over his cockpit. "And so the logical solution was to construct an abomination in the middle of the room?"   
  
Wheeljack chuckled. Starscream swore he was immune to vitriol or something. "Yes. Because I figured, the reason ya can't recharge is because ya can't feel safe. And what's safer than a fort?"   
  
"One made of pillows."   
  
"Well..." Wheeljack scratched at his battle mask. "It should be comfortable if you're going to sleep in it."   
  
Starscream cycled a ventilation. He gave Wheeljack a long look before he approached the so-called fort. He peered into the dim, and found the interior looked like a fluffy monstrosity of comfort. The walls were not so close that he'd feel trapped, but not so far that he'd feel exposed. A soft glow emanated from somewhere, like those of emergency lights.   
  
"You did this... for me?" Starscream asked.   
  
"Yep." Wheeljack swept the curtain over the entrance back even further. "It's all yours."   
  
"By myself?"   
  
"Well, there's room for two, but I didn't know who you'd wanna invite inside." Wheeljack shrugged.   
  
Starscream, despite himself, was touched. "I... thank you," he said, and the words sounded so odd to him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually said them. He paused. "Well, if there's room for two, you could always join me. Perfectly platonically, of course." Was it strange he'd actually feel safe around Wheeljack?   
  
Yes. Yes, it was.   
  
"After all," Starscream rushed to say, "you did go through all the effort of building it."   
  
"Really?" Wheeljack's optics brightened, his little winglets wriggling with something akin to childish glee. "I have to admit, I was a little jealous. This is a darn fine construction if I do say so myself. But! You first. Since it's meant for you."   
  
Starscream stared at him.   
  
That was.   
  
That was really cute.   
  
Oh, no.   
  
Starscream dove into the fort and told himself it wasn't so Wheeljack wouldn't see the realization that dawned on his face.   
  
Oh, no.   
  



	197. Training Session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Soundwave  
> Universe: TFP, pre-canon  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: suggestive themes  
> Description: Ratchet never managed to win any spars, save one, and luckily, it was the one which counted most.

The third time someone banged on the wall, demanding quiet, Ratchet barked a laugh. Where did they think they were? Upper Iacon? This was a seedy motel in a seedy section of the city, down in some of the darkest levels of Kaon. There was enough noise outside the window, that the ruckus he and Soundwave made barely qualified as a disturbance.   
  
"Ready to give up?" Ratchet asked as he swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, flicking away the droplets of energon that beaded free.   
  
Soundwave gave him that stare, the one that unnerved many of his opponents in the ring. Dark and silent was an effective technique, down there in the Pits. Here in this room, all it did was send another shiver of desire up Ratchet's spinal strut.   
  
"Negative," Soundwave said, his datacables coiling restlessly about him, as though they were sentient beings ready to strike.   
  
Ratchet chuckled darkly. "Didn't think so." His vents stuttered, cycling a deeper ventilation. He dropped back into the defensive stance Soundwave taught him. "Then come on. One more time."   
  
Soundwave tilted his helm, his weight shifting, the poor lighting in the room still managing to reflect off his armor, highlighting the many scrapes and dents in the paint. "Surrender after defeat?"   
  
Ratchet waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, yes. You know I will." He grinned crookedly. "I might surprise you this time, though."   
  
The raspy echo in Soundwave's chassis was the closest thing he allowed to a laugh. He lifted a hand, spindly fingers curling toward Ratchet. "Come."   
  
Ratchet's engine growled. He ground his denta and threw himself forward, trying to remember everything he'd been shown. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to last longer than a few seconds, but maybe if he was lucky, he'd land a solid hit this time.   
  
He was wrong.   
  
He forgot, as he always did, about the datacables.   
  
Light flashed in Soundwave's visor right before Ratchet's world turned upside down. His ventilations stuttered as his aft hit the berth, the rusted thing creaking beneath his weight. His vision filled briefly with static before it clarified into the barely tangible weight of Soundwave perched over him, amusement thick in the gladiator's field.   
  
"Yield?"   
  
Ratchet scowled. "Yeah, I yield," he said, sinking into the berth. "Like I always do."   
  
Soundwave laughed in that odd way of his again.   
  
"You know, someday I will be able to land a hit."  
  
"You will," Soundwave said, a certainty in his vocals that wasn't the least bit condescending. "For now, however, a different challenge?"   
  
Ratchet's cooling fans clicked to life. His frame flushed with heat. "Finally, something I can win," he said.   
  
Soundwave leaned down, nuzzling his helm against Ratchet's, his field blanketing Ratchet's in heat and need. "Surrender gladly offered."   
  
Ratchet shivered.   
  
Well, he supposed their neighbors were going to start complaining for a different reason now. Too bad for them.   
  



	198. Every Move You Make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Soundwave, Jazz  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Creepy!Wave, Stalker Behavior  
> Description: Soundwave has developed a hobby.

Swindle might have had the market cornered on questionable videos of Autobots in alluring poses and behaviors, but Soundwave was the single-most authority on Jazz. Not that he ever offered his many, many recordings to Swindle for the purpose of making a profit. No, these recordings were for his use, and his use alone.   
  
They were research. They were clues. They were hints. They told a story, painted a picture, they were pieces of a puzzle, of the enigma that was the Autobot's third in command. A mech who smiled, danced, and laughed in the light, and slit the intake of many a Decepticon soldier in the shadows. He could slip in a virus without a second though. He never hesitated to pull the trigger.   
  
Jazz was a walking contradiction. And Soundwave... might have developed something of a hobby. An obsession, one might call it. Everyone had ways they passed the time, things to occupy themselves while the Decepticons cowered in their underwater prison, waiting for the right time to try (and fail) to destroy the Autobots.   
  
Skywarp performed poorly executed pranks. Motormaster made odd metallic sculptures. Thundercracker scribbled in a very old, very flimsy datapad. Lord Megatron brooded, plotting Optimus' demise in many potentially gruesome ways. Or erotic ones, depending on how you looked at it.   
  
Soundwave, meanwhile, had this.   
  
Video. Recorded conversations. Scribbled notations. Scraps of paper. Items stolen from his private habsuite. It formed an interesting mosaic on the back of the standalone closet in Soundwave's hab.   
  
Sometimes, he opened the doors and stared at it, his gaze wandering from artifact to memory to memento. He thought if he stared at it long enough, he'd understand Jazz, and through that understanding, he could devise a way to defeat the Autobots for Lord Megatron.   
  
Or, barring that, discover a way beneath Jazz's plating. Surely a mind that devious harbored thoughts of the tasty variety. Surely a frame that flexible could find itself in rather interesting positions.   
  
Surely Jazz would open to him, if only Soundwave could get close enough to touch. But in order to do so, he needed to understand. To anticipate. To prepare.   
  
Thus, the research. Carefully acquired, carefully arranged, carefully understood. Surely the answers were here. All Soundwave had to do was keep looking.   
  
He would find the key, and then, only then, would Jazz be his.   
  



	199. Safe and Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bluestreak/Jazz  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, DomSub, BDSM, Immobilization, Sensory Deprivation  
> Description: Jazz couldn't do anything but lay here and trust, lay here and feel. 

It was the part where he was supposed to be afraid, that always got Jazz. He was bound, he couldn't move, couldn't so much as twitch. He was exposed, could feel the ghost of air currents over his valve and spike. He couldn't hear anything. Couldn't see anything. Could barely sense any fields through the fog on his processor.   
  
Except that he knew he was safe. He knew he was in Bluestreak's very talented, very knowledgeable hands. He knew that the caresses dragging him toward pleasure belonged to his Master. And with that knowledge came complete and utter surrender.   
  
Jazz's processor settled. His fight or flight instincts vanished into the shadows. Anxiety was replaced by lust, and enough of it that all else faded. There was nothing to focus on but Bluestreak's touch, the delicate press of his fingers, the hot sweep of his glossa. Jazz had no noise to focus on, save the static in his cortex. He had no light to draw his optics. He couldn't do anything but lay here and trust, lay here and feel.   
  
He felt the moan rise up in his chassis. He knew his vocalizer activated. But he couldn't hear it. He tried to move toward the teasing caresses, but couldn't shift more than an inch in any direction. A combination of straps and magnets kept him firmly in place.   
  
It was freer than Jazz had felt in months.   
  
Pleasure throbbed through his frame in thick, suffusing waves. Jazz would've moved with it, if he could, instead he felt it carry him away, floating on a sea of ecstasy. He purred and moaned, babbled for his master, and when overload came, it was less a sharp and sudden thing, and more a slow pour of liquid heat through every nook and cranny of his frame.   
  
More than the pleasure, more than the overload, was the eclipsing sensation of being _safe_ and Jazz clung to it.   
  
In Bluestreak's hands, he was safe.   
  



	200. Reparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl/Constructicons  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: nsfw, consensual body horror and torture, consensual limb removal, potentially dark themes   
> Description: They tore him apart, and they put him back together. Over and over again. 

There was comfort in the pain.   
  
Every bit of sensation, every registered point of contact, every bit of data, all was a strike to his neural net.   
  
The drip of fluids. His fluids. He counted them. A discordant rhythm.   
  
The snap-crackle of charge as lines ran with it, spooling apart, one by one.   
  
The tight grip of more hands then he could count. (Lies. There were seven. Someone observed, he suspected Hook. The other was Bonecrusher, he knew, because of the largest of them, he only felt he needed the one).   
  
Suspended. Helpless. Trapped. Caught.   
  
Then.   
  
Anticipation.   
  
Prowl braced, dancing on that edge of terror and hunger. Where his spark throbbed in antagonizing counter-rhythms.   
  
He guessed they would go for his right leg, the weak one, it of the damaged and repeatedly repaired joint.   
  
Prowl's engine roared. His field surged outward and was met in kind. Grips adjusted.   
  
Pulled.   
  
Prowl's backstrut arched. The scream caught and died in a vocalizer disengaged, wisely before they even began. The pain defied words.   
  
They hadn't gone for his right leg, but his left arm. The strongest. The one he favored.   
  
Joints separated. Plating tore. Lines shredded. Pain so hot it turned cold, so bright it was dark, so harsh that it turned into a ripple of need, of want.

Prowl's spark shivered, throbbing from the force of it. The rattle that started in his chamber was so far from terror as to have twisted and turned into a craving.   
  
His lips moved, unable to voice what he wanted, but they understood him all the same.   
  
_More. Another_.   
  
And they obliged.   
  
Prowl writhed among them, trapped by their grips, cradled by their hands. Scavenger's so gentle where they braced his chassis. Bonecrusher, singly gripping Prowl's left leg. It had to be Mixmaster at his right leg, and Longhaul at his right arm. Hook, surely, had gathered up his sundered limb, prepping it for re-attachment at some point.   
  
They tore him apart, and they put him back together. Over and over again.   
  
And for once, for a single aching moment suspended in time, the noise in Prowl's helm was gone.   
  



	201. Retrograde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Unnamed Character  
> Universe: G1/IDW  
> Rating: K+  
> Description: No one ever stays.

 

_“It’s not you, it’s me.”_

_“I’m not ready for a commitment.”_

_“I don’t think we’re a good match.”_

_“You’re pretty, but that’s it.”_

The list goes on. And on and on. Excuses and explanations. Regrets and reasons. Lies and truth.

Dozens of them. One by one. Shadows on his spark. All of them failures. All of them proof he’s not enough, and he’ll never be.

This again. This here. Why should he be any different?

“I’m sorry.”

Apologies.

Sunstreaker’s had those before.

“But I can’t do this anymore.”

Sunstreaker doesn’t have the energy to be angry. It’s his fault. It always is. He ignores the lies that spill so easily. It’s his fault.

“You’re broken.”

Yes. This Sunstreaker knows.

“I can’t fix you. I shouldn’t have to. I don’t want to.”

He sighs. Optics dim. Downcast look. On the floor, not at Sunstreaker. He shifts and shuffles. Armor clamps. Defensive.

He’s still afraid. Sunstreaker has never hurt him, but he’s still afraid. That right there. Proof. It’s Sunstreaker’s fault. It always is.

“You need something I can’t give you.”

Sunstreaker wants something he can’t have. There’s a difference. Not one Sunstreaker can explain. But it’s there. Explaining requires words. Sunstreaker doesn’t know words.

“And I just...”

A pause. A search. An attempt not to upset, perhaps.

A failed attempt.

“I don’t think I’m the right one for you.”

A cycled vent. A flicker of biolights. A grating field. A rumbling engine.

“Okay?”

All Sunstreaker can see are the good times. Coiled together on a narrow berth. Gentle smiles. Soft touches. Whispered promises.

“Primus, Sunstreaker. Will you just say something?”

Like what?

An apology? A plea? An agreement? Should he smile? Should he weep? He’s said and done it all before. It never mattered. It doesn’t matter.

What’s the point? It’s not going to change. Nothing ever changes.

He curses. Subvocal. Irritated. Truth where the kindness is a lie.

Hands scrub down his face. Ex-vents emerge sharp. His field is gone. Cold in the emptiness left behind.

“I knew I shouldn’t have bothered. I could’ve vanished, and you probably wouldn’t notice.”

Sunstreaker feels small. Empty. He’s ventilating, but only just. Alarms ring in his processor, and one by one, Sunstreaker flips them to ignore.

“Fine. I’m gone. Have a nice life.”

Sunstreaker doesn’t watch him walk away. His vision blurs. His audials are static. His spark is small, so small.

And ugly inside. He can polish until he gleams, but he can’t hide the scars. It must be stamped on his chamber. Everyone sees it eventually, sharp and jagged lines like a cautionary tale.

‘Don’t bother.’

‘Waste of time.’

‘Not worth it.’

‘Broken.’

His hands form fists with nothing to strike.

What’s the point?

There’s no point.

He’s empty inside.

“He’s gone, huh?”

Sunstreaker shakes his head, all he can manage. He doesn’t need to say anything. The proof is there in front of him.

Sideswipe sighs.

“No one ever stays,” Sideswipe says aloud, voicing what Sunstreaker can’t.

But, Sunstreaker knows, at least Sideswipe never leaves.

 

****


	202. Twister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream, Blurr, Knock Out, Rodimus  
> Universe: IDW, far off future of Truth in Advertising  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None  
> Description: Four mechs in a balancing act. It goes as well as can be expected.

“Left hand blue.” 

Starscream grunted and shifted his weight, contortioning himself to try and reach the silly blue circle. “When I said I wanted to play a game, this was not what I had in mind,” he muttered as he slapped his palm on it. 

Blurr chuckled from somewhere around Starscream’s legs. “Maybe you should have specified.” 

“Yeah. Cause I’m sure having fun,” Knock Out drawled, one claw flicking the spinner again. “Right leg yellow, Rodimus.” 

“Of course you’re having fun,” Rodimus said with an audible huff. “You and your paintjob are out of harm’s way.” There was a grunt, a skreel of metal, and then Rodimus exclaimed, “Ha! that’s why I’m the best.” 

“We’ll see about that. Spin it, Knock Out,” Blurr said, wriggling, his ex-vents puffing against the inside of Starscream’s knee. 

They were so twisted and tangled together, Starscream feared they were going to get stuck this way. Which would be amusing, he supposed, if he weren’t the one in the middle staring at Rodimus’ aft. It was an attractive aft, yes, but that wasn’t the point. 

“Right hand red,” Knock Out announced. 

“I’ve so got this,” Blurr said. He grunted as he started to shift, a careful balancing act of all four limbs. 

“This is not a sexy game,” Starscream huffed. 

Blurr yelped. The play mat ripped. A flailing hand swept Starscream’s one solidly placed leg out from under him. 

The carefully balanced tangle of three mechs collapsed in a heap. Starscream eeped as someone kneed him in the side -- Blurr probably -- but then there was warmth in his lap, and all he could see was a very red, very warm panel. 

“I’m so glad I’m not at the bottom of that pile,” Knock Out commented. “You three look ridiculous.” 

“Oh, I dunno,” Rodimus huffed as he struggled to sit up, his thighs quite neatly bracketing Starscream’s face. He smirked down at Starscream. “It looks to me like things are about to get interesting.” He wriggled his aft. “Wanna take care of business while you’re down there?”

“I’ve got a pretty good view from where I landed, too,” Blurr piped up, his ex-vents ghosting over Starscream’s inner thigh. “We could make it a two for one.” 

Starscream rolled his optics at the two idiots. “Autobot optimism,” he muttered. 

Rodimus winked. “It’s the very best kind.”


	203. By Last Count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Cyclonus/Tailgate  
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Multiple Overloads  
> Description: Cyclonus thought he could lay here for the rest of the week and still not get enough rest.

Cyclonus panted air through his intake, only capable of lying on the berth and twitching. The padding beneath his aft was soaked with fluids, lubricant and transfluid alike. His legs felt weak; his cooling fans rattled. He thought he could lay here for the rest of the week and still not get enough rest. 

“Wow,” Tailgate said from somewhere around Cyclonus’ knees. His facemask was smeared with lubricant. His visor was bright. “That was, what, seven?” 

“Eight.” Cyclonus tried not to gasp. “By last count.” His spark throbbed. He tried to move, but that took too much effort. 

“Eight,” Tailgate repeated. He rose up on his knees, his hands smoothing up Cyclonus’ legs with a slow drag of his palms. “Wanna go for nine? I think I can set some kind of record.”

Cyclonus thought perhaps he should consider rest. But then Tailgate’s fingers flirted over his rim, dancing across each of his smaller exterior nodes, and a shiver raced up his spinal strut. 

“Or, I could even round it up to ten. Maybe should aim for even numbers, you think?” Tailgate murmured as one finger dipped beyond the soaked rim. “What do you say?” 

“Yes,” Cyclonus moaned, canting his hips upward with what little strength he had left.

What else was there left to say?


	204. On the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Optimus Prime  
> Universe: Any  
> Rating: M   
> Warnings: Bondage, Edging, Orgasm Delay/Denial  
> Description: Rumor had it that Megatron had no control. They were so very wrong.

Rumor had it that Megatron had no virtually no control. He could not contain himself, could not hold himself back, could not be counted on to have restraint. 

Optimus’ current predicament threw all of those rumors straight into the disposal center.   
He cried out, tugging on the restraints that kept all four limbs shackled to the wall, pleasure burning a path of fire through his frame. With claws and glossa alone, Megatron had kept him on edge for hours. 

Optimus’ vents cycled faster and faster, his cooling fans screeching to keep him cool. Charge crackled out from beneath his frame, but the shunt latched to his chestplate gathered it up and dissipated it before it could come to use. 

Optimus groaned and sagged against the wall, defeated. 

Megatron chuckled, dark and dangerous. “I am impressed, Prime,” he purred, claws dragging down Optimus’ dorsum, catching on each individual armor plate. “You’re taking your punishment well.” 

Optimus growled and tossed his helm, ecstasy dancing through his lines until it, too, was gone again. His knees wobbled. “Haven’t I suffered enough?” 

“No. Not until you understand the severity of your transgressions.” Megatron’s denta scraped over Optimus’ intake cables, making him shiver. “Overloading before your master is always frowned upon, my pet.” 

Optimus chewed on his bottom lip, writhing in his chains. He wanted to overload. He wanted to taste that sweet release. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll forgive you soon enough,” Megatron continued, his denta nibbling Optimus’ nearest antennae. “Until then, however, I can touch you as much as I want, can’t I, Prime?” 

Optimus panted and hung his helm, his frame dripping condensation and heat. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.” 

Megatron’s claws dipped into his hip joints again, caressing the cables beneath, leaving him aching, begging for more. 

But oh, that overload had been worth it.


	205. Aggressive Foreplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Deadlock, Megatron  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence  
> Description: There was no question who would win in the end, and who would be tossed over the table and fragged until his vocalizer glitched.

For once, the crunch-growl-snap-snarl in the conference room had nothing to do with Starscream. Though it you asked him, this didn’t please the mercurial Seeker at all. In fact, he stood removed from the action, his arms folded over his cockpit, his optics narrow slits of displeasure. 

Meanwhile, in the center of the room, Megatron and Deadlock clashed as though they truly meant to kill one another. Energon spattered the ground around them. One console lay in a sparking ruin. Laserfire pockmarked the ceiling. 

It was a miracle no one had been injured yet. 

Deadlock bared his denta, snarling like a feral beast. 

Megatron laughed, his optics bright and fierce. 

They came together again, palm to palm, Deadlock much smaller, his feet screeching across the floor as Megatron forced him back. 

“Yield!” the Decepticon Lord demanded, his field lashing the room with excitement and lust. 

Deadlock laughed, a dark sound. “You haven’t earned it yet,” he said, and broke off the hold, ducking under and out from Megatron’s sweeping reach. His ventilations stuttered, his own field thick with play and desire. He had no weapons, these had already been crushed by one of Megatron’s massive feet. Instead, he used his smaller size to his advantage, darting always just out of reach. 

This would have infuriated Megatron if he were anyone else. But Deadlock occupied a unique position at Megatron’s side. And in his berth. 

There was no question who would win in the end, and who would be tossed over the table and fragged until his vocalizer glitched. 

But half the fun was in the challenge. It wasn’t about winning or losing. 

It was all about playing the game.


	206. Control or Lack Thereof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream/Ratchet  
> Universe: G1/IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Bondage, Overload Delay, Cock Ring  
> Description: Starscream is a tease.

“You really don’t have much self-control, do you?” Starscream mused aloud, his lips curved in a grin. 

“Shut the slag up!” Ratchet snarled, his hips bucking, his wrists tugging ineffectually at the cuffs that kept them bound above his helm. 

Starscream chuckled and dragged his lips over the inside of Ratchet’s trembling thighs, bring his mouth closer and closer to the bared, dripping array. 

“Haven’t you ever heard that patience yields a sweeter outcome?” Starscream teased as he slid a hand up, working a talon into one of Ratchet’s seams to scratch at the cables beneath. 

Ratchet groaned, his backstrut arching. “Just get the frag on with it!” 

Starscream clicked his glossa, shaking his helm. “Such language, Ratchet. I’m appalled.” He ex-vented wetly and dragged one finger up the under-side of Ratchet’s spike. The medic quivered. “We intellectual types should be better than that.” 

Ratchet growled at him, all of his words unrepeatable to delicate audials. His thighs quivered as lubricant formed a growing puddle beneath his aft. 

Starscream hummed a laugh. “Mmm, it looks like I’ll have you begging soon,” he purred and his finger circled the tip of Ratchet’s dripping spike. A ring encircled the base, blinking in accordance with the level of Ratchet’s desperation. “But you’ll be waiting on that overload a while yet.”

Ratchet’s engine roared. The cuffs rattled. “Just remember what they say about payback,” he snarled, his optics flashing fire. 

Starscream chuckled. One finger flicked over Ratchet’s swollen, aching node.

“Promises, promises.”


	207. Compliments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Mirage/Tracks  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Master/Pet play  
> Description: Mirage smiled down at his pretty pet, and gave the leash a gentle pull.

“My, but you make a pretty pet,” Mirage murmured as he dragged his fingertrips over the crown of Tracks’ helm. 

Tracks’ engine purred. His optics glowed a bright, adoring blue. He tilted his helm into Mirage’s caress, flourishing under the compliment.

It was one he richly deserved. His plating shone with a healthy, unmarred gleam. The platinum collar around his neck was so polished that Mirage could see his reflection in it. But the true marvel was the delicate chain connected to the loop at the front. It twinkled in the overhead light. 

Tracks was amazingly well-behaved. He didn’t need a leash for behavior correction. Mirage simply enjoyed having both for the aesthetic. 

Mirage smiled down at his pet and gave the leash a gentle pull. 

“Come on then, pretty one,” Mirage murmured and turned toward the berth. “I find I’m in need of some service. My valve, especially, remembers the feel of your glossa.” 

Tracks’ faceplate lit with joy, his field buzzing with eager delight. He said nothing -- pets did not speak after all -- but he licked his lips and rose on hands and knees to follow Mirage. 

That, in itself, was approval enough.


	208. Lovely in Lace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl/Optimus Prime  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Lingerie, Robots in Clothes  
> Description: Prowl didn’t know what he’d done to earn such an enticing surprise.

Prowl juggled both an armload of datapads and a cube of spiced mid-grade as he angled his elbow at the access panel to his hab. He had already formed an apology, though by now one wasn’t necessary. He still intended to offer one. 

The door opened, Prowl still juggling, as he stepped inside. He cleared his vocalizer, only for the apology to die on his glossa as his optics took in what waited for him. 

“Um.” His datapads hit the floor. One of them cracked, he didn’t care which.

“It is not too much, I hope,” Optimus Prime rumbled, long silver fingers smoothing down the glittery ruffle that was a fringe across the top of his thighs. 

Stretched across his windshield was something equally pale and lacy as it framed his chassis. The bright colors of his paint were clearly visible beneath, but somehow, in the shadow of the lace, they were more attractive than usual. 

Prowl’s mouth went dry. 

His gaze fell again to that fringe of lace as it rose ever so slightly up Optimus’ thigh. 

“Prowl?” 

His hands tightened around the cube, glad he hadn’t made a mess. 

“It is perfect.” Prowl blindly set the cube aside, his fingers aching to touch. “Though I do not understand why.” 

Optimus chuckled, his fingers trailing over the lace draped across his windshield. “Neither do I. But it does invite touch, does it not?” 

Prowl’s hips bumped the edge of the berth. He didn’t remember crossing the floor. 

“May I?” he asked, vents caught. 

Blue optics glowed at him. “Please. I insist.” Optimus licked his lips, the sweep of his glossa somehow one of the most erotic things Prowl had ever seen. 

He worked his intake. His fingertips brushed Optimus’ armor just below the shadow of the lingerie. His ventilations hitched. 

He did not know what brought this on, but he suspected he would be glad for it.


	209. A Little Bit More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Blurr/Rodimus  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Overload Delay, Handcuffs  
> Description: Rodimus wanted to overload, but he wanted to prove Blurr’s faith in him, too.

Rodimus whined, and didn’t care that he’d made such an embarrassing noise. His hips pumped into the hands teasing his array, his node throbbing and his spike dribbling freely. 

“Don’t overload now,” Blurr said with a wicked cant to his voice. He purred in Rodimus’ audial, nuzzling against the back of his helm. “We’re supposed to be working on your control, remember?” 

Rodimus groaned, his helm tilting back against Blurr’s shoulder. His thighs trembled where they were splayed across Blurr’s, his entire array bared and open. His hands had been bound beneath his spoiler, to keep him from touching himself and snatching the overload that hovered around the corner. 

“I’m not going to last if you don’t stop touching me,” he gasped. His hips bucked again, fire singing through his lines and curling in his groin. 

Blurr pinched the tip of his spike, hard enough to sting. “Yes, you will,” he said with a confidence that he surely brought from his racing days. “You’re going to hold back because you know that when I finally let you overload, it’ll be so much better.” He nibbled on Rodimus’ audial, wet and hot. 

Rodimus gnawed on his bottom lip. His hands drew into his fists. He fought against the tight coil in his belly, the restless grasp of his calipers on the two fingers lazily stroking his valve. 

His optics shuttered. “I can’t do it,” he whimpered. 

Blurr’s hand left his spike and planted on his abdomen, pushing him back against Blurr. “Yes, you can. You just have to concentrate. Focus.”

Rodimus’ laugh was a thin warble. “Haven’t you heard? I don’t know how to do that.” He ground his denta, tasting sparks, entire frame quivering. Overload hovered so close. He couldn’t-- couldn’t--

“Yes, you do,” Blurr murmured and nuzzled his helm again. He rubbed one finger over Rodimus’ throbbing caudal node. “Cause you’re doing it right now.” He ex-vented hot and wet over Rodimus’ audial. “Come on, brightspark. Just a little longer.” 

Rodimus keened deep in his chassis. He wanted to overload, but he wanted to prove Blurr’s faith in him, too. He clenched his jaw, cycled a ventilation, and focused. 

“That’s it,” Blurr praised and flirted with Rodimus’ rim. “Good.” 

Rodimus’s spark whirled. His helm lolled on Blurr’s shoulder. Just a little bit longer now. Just a little bit more.


	210. Of Monsters and Mechs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron, Terminus  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: T  
> Description: In his dreams, Terminus was alive, but never the way Megatron remembered him.

In his dreams, Terminus was alive, but never the way Megatron remembered him.

Fond warmth turned to icy horror as the war dragged on, Terminus shaping himself into a monster in Megatron’s recharge.

A shambling Empty with black optical sockets, rending claws, and dripping rust. Pawing at Megatron, mouth agape, so hungry. Denta sharp, like a scraplet, and thirsting for Megatron’s energon. Tearing away his armor, tearing into him, sucking the very life out of him.

Or a Sparkeater made of angles and teeth, his field one of raw hunger, his spark core dark, electric fire crackling over his scorched armor. His fingers turned to talons and his voice a song that haunted Megatron’s audials, while a handful of flexible tentacles wrapped around Megatron, drawing him in, closer and closer.

Or even a Dead Zone abomination, his touch as cold as liquid nitrogen, oily ooze seeping from his seams and tainting Megatron’s own, his optics as red as coals, his glossa snaking over his lips as he rasped, “ _make me whole_ , _Megatron_.”

And worse of all, Terminus was sometimes whole and hale, young and vibrant, holding Megatron close, nuzzling against his face, whispering sweetly in his audial. Fingers stroked ever so gentle, a fusion cannon gleaming on his left arm, his field a warm embrace, as he murmured so soft and silky, “ _Thief.”_

_**Traitor.** _

_**MURDERER.** _

Megatron onlined in a burst, night after night. He trembled, defense protocols humming, his spark throbbing.

He could still feel the deadly kiss of nightmarish fangs, the pleasure-pain grip of thorny tentacles, the icy embrace.

_Traitor..._

Megatron buried his face in his hands. Night after night, Terminus became a monster of the worse kind.

Just like the one Megatron saw in the mirror.

 


	211. Torturous Pleasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream/Barricade  
> Universe: Bayverse  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: BDSM, painplay, punishment   
> Description: Oh, yes, there were worse tortures, Barricade knew. But in this moment, he couldn’t think of a single one.

There were many tortures Barricade had been trained to endure. Pain could be tolerated. Enjoyed even. Solitude was preferable. 

Pleasure, however, was another thing altogether. Especially when he was forced to ride the hard edge of it with no relief in sight.

“You disobeyed me,” Starscream said with a sibilant hiss. 

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The murmured chastisement was enough to make Barricade’s armor crawl. 

Or maybe that was the pleasure, lighting up his cables in waves of blue-white fire. He writhed in his bonds, engine red-lining, vents rattling. 

Every strut, every rivet, every cable crackled with need. But overload remained out of reach. That mercy was in Starscream’s talons. 

And Barricade had been disobedient. 

“Well?” Starscream dragged a claw over Barricade’s tire, setting it to spin. “I’m not hearing an apology.”

He opened his mouth, and only managed a static-laced moan. Desperation tasted like discharged laserfire on his glossa. 

Starscream chuckled darkly. “Take your time, pet. I can wait.” 

His talon scraped down Barricade’s backstrut this time. The skreel of metal made him writhe. Static raced across his frame. 

“Though I don’t know if you can,” Starscream taunted. 

Barricade spat a binary noise, a stubborn rebuttal, even as need yawed in his spark. 

Starscream hummed a laugh. “Yes. That’s what I thought.” He sighed theatrically. “I suppose I’ll have to start from the beginning.” 

Oh, yes, there were worse tortures, Barricade knew. But in this moment, he couldn’t think of a single one.


	212. Chatterbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bumblebee/Skywarp  
> Universe: Any  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Oral  
> Description: The single most obnoxious use of Skywarp’s mouthw as a never-ending stream of chatter.

In Bumblebee’s opinion, sucking spike was the best use for Skywarp’s mouth, only beating out licking valve by a slim margin. 

Unfortunately, it was not Bumblebee’s turn. 

Which left him with putting up with the single most obnoxious use of Skywarp’s mouth -- a never-ending stream of nonsensical chatter. 

“Ooo, take me deeper. Yes, right there. Oh, frag you’re good at this.” 

Skywarp moaned. His hand cradled Bumblebee’s head, one thumb stroking Bumblebee’s sensory horn. The Seeker trembled with restrained charge, lust thick like syrup in his field. His spike throbbed on Bumblebee’s glossa as pre-fluid trickled down his intake. 

“Suck on the tip,” Skywarp said, though it came out more like a request. “Do that thing with your denta. You know what I mean.” 

Yes, Bumblebee did. 

He dragged his mouth of Skywarp’s spike until he cradled the ridged crown with his denta. His glossa poked at the transfluid channel, sipping up the trickles of pre-fluid.   
Skywarp growled pleasure, his hips rocking.

“Yessss. Perfect. Keep going. Drink me up, Bee. Suck me down.” 

His hips made little circles as he worked himself deeper. 

“Primus, I love it when you do that,” Skywarp praised with a low moan. 

Bumblebee swallowed him down again, intake flexing around the crown. Skywarp squirmed and sighed, babbling more delight, more encouragement, more praise.   
It was actually pretty cute now that Bumblebee thought about it. 

“Yes! Primus, your mouth feels so good!” 

Obnoxious. 

But cute.


	213. Furniture Misuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Pharma  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex  
> Description: There were going to be dents in that cabinet later.

“It’s undignified!” he claimed. 

“It’s unprofessional!” he sniped. 

“It makes a mess!” he whined. 

And yet none of that kept Pharma from snapping, “Harder, rust you! Or I’ll take it myself!” as Ratchet pounded into his valve with sharp thrusts. 

He had Pharma against a filing cabinet this time, one of his partner’s legs thrown over his hip while Pharma clutched at him with fingers turned to gripping claws. Pharma huffed and snarled, his valve cinching hungrily on Ratchet’s spike. His ailerons fluttered, his lips peeled back over his denta. 

“Any harder and I’ll dent your damn thruster,” Ratchet growled. 

“You don’t have the strength,” Pharma hissed. A challenge. 

Ratchet’s engine rumbled. He bit at Pharma’s intake, leaving a dent on those pristine cables, even as he hiked Pharma’s leg higher on his hip. He pounded into Pharma with abandon, hearing the scraping _skreel_ of thruster on fancy cabinet. 

“I’ll show you strength,” Ratchet snapped. 

Pharma hitched a laugh. “Do try your best, Ratchet. We’ll see.” 

Fragging. Arrogant. Jet!

There were going to be scrapes in the cabinet later. 

Oh, the frag well. 

It wouldn’t be the first time.


	214. Drawn Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Soundwave/Sunstreaker/Sideswipe  
> Universe: TFP  
> Rating: M  
> Description: Together, they mattered.

They had missed this ecstasy.

In the Pits, Soundwave had been as much a novelty for his data cables as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had been for being twins. They were fetishized, used, bought and sold even. Until they all three gained enough fame, power, and skill to defy all but the most well-connected patrons. 

Though rumor had it Soundwave had once defied a Senator and said political figure hadn’t dared say otherwise. 

They’d been drawn to one another, like calling to like. The twins saw in Soundwave another outlier, another outcast. For all that Soundwave stood at the side of the great Megatronus, he was alone. For everyone knew who Megatronus truly had optics for. 

Together, all three soon learned there was no greater ecstasy than acceptance. Together, they were no mere novelties and toys for amusement. 

Together, they _mattered_. 

Even when the war separated them, quiet moments were stolen. Faction badges were set aside as were responsibilities. 

They moved together – Soundwave pressed between two near-matching frames, their sparks echoing back and forth while he was caught in the middle. His spark throbbed to match the beat, until he felt he was a part of them. 

And he returned the favor. 

He wrapped them in his cables, kept their frames close to his, and sank his manipulators into their ports. Charge and data crackled through their lines in a blazing bolt of need, as liquid heat seared their systems. He joined their pleasure, all three blending until they pulsed as one. 

It was blinding ecstasy and all three soaked it in for as long as they could. 

Acceptance. Belonging. One fed into the other, and for a single, blissful moment, they knew peace.


	215. Unapologetic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Deathsaurus/Starscream  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M   
> Description: Deathsaurus has Starscream right where he wants him.

It was decidedly unfair. 

Starscream muffled another moan against his knuckles, denta grinding over his fingers as he struggled to keep quiet. Meanwhile, a long and agile glossa wound around his spike, stroking him perfectly, the tapered tip occasionally poking at his transfluid slit and teasing him with channel penetration. 

His hips bucked, thighs quivering, array pulsing waves of scorching heat. Deathsaurus crouched in front of him like an avenging beast, his massive hands curled around Starscream’s thighs, keeping him spread and open. They were gentle, for all they held him firmly in place for Death’s oral assault. 

Starscream’s wings fluttered. He leaned further back onto the communication console, struggling to buck up into Deathsaurus’ mouth but the commander’s grip preventing him from doing so. 

Deathsaurus’ denta scraped along his spike, base to tip, his glossa laving an electric path of pleasure. 

Starscream whimpered. 

The access panel to the door chimed. Then beeped. Then denied access to whomever was on the other side. 

Starscream froze. Deathsaurus’ sucked him deep and let Starscream linger in his intake, tubing squeezing at the tip of Starscream’s spike. 

The panel beeped in the negative again. Someone was trying very hard to get inside. But no one could override Deathsaurus’ overrides. 

Except Leozack. 

“Hey!” Starscream shoved at Deathsaurus’ helm, even as four sets of optics turned up to look at him -- creepy, but effective. 

Deathsaurus had the nerve to smirk around Starscream’s spike, half his altmode optics flicked in a wink, and then he swallowed Starscream again. 

A whine eked out of Starscream’s intake. He tipped his head back, drawing air through his denta. 

The panel denied access again. And then it glowed a baleful orange, permanently locking out the person on the other side. Not Leozack then. 

Thank Primus. 

Deathsaurus chuckled, the vibrations taunting the tip of Starscream’s spike. The arrogant aft. 

“You’ll pay for that later,” Starscream muttered, though it was less convincing when his wings shivered and his spike throbbed. 

Deathsaurus smirked again, as if to say ‘I doubt it’ and given the way his glossa worked Starscream’s spike, the way his fingers flexed around Starscream’s thighs, he was probably right.


	216. Taking Care of Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Shockwave/Tentacles, Elita One, Chromia, Greenlight, Moonracer, Firestar  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: Implied Tentacles and Oviposition  
> Warnings: M   
> Description: Of all the things Elita expects to see on the secret camera feed she’d had Greenlight hack, Shockwave getting stuffed up the valve by some kind of metallic tentacled thing is not on the list.

Of all the things Elita expects to see on the secret camera feed she’d had Greenlight hack, Shockwave getting stuffed up the valve by some kind of metallic tentacled thing is not on the list. 

Lancer gasps. Chromia leers. Greenlight has the gall to activate the Primus-forsaken zoom, until there’s nothing on the screen but Shockwave’s twitching frame and the writhing tentacles around it. 

“What is he doing?” Lancer asks, horror etched into her face. 

“Taking care of business, if you ask me,” Chromia says with a laugh. 

“I’m jealous. That looks like fun,” Moonracer chimes in. 

“Why’s he get all the good toys?” Firestar pouts. 

“Fun!” Lancer repeats, close to a shriek. All the color’s drained from her face. “He’s interfacing with a… a….” 

“I dunno what that is,” Chromia says. “But old one optic sure looks like he’s enjoying himself.” 

“Quintesson spawn maybe,” Greenlight says categorically. A few key presses and the image clarifies, highlighting just how lubricated Shockwave is and how much it glistens. 

The zoom focuses on a very thick tentacle with circular bulges. It plunges into Shockwave, pushing deep, and then proceeds to pump. The spheres vanish into Shockwave one by one.

“What is it doing?” Lancer demands. She’s backed away from the screen now. 

Firestar laughs and leans closer, her optics bright. “I never took Shockwave for one with carrier longing, but I guess it takes all kinds, huh?” 

“They’re eggs, Lancie,” Greenlight says with a shrug. “I mean, probably. Rumor has it the Quints propagated using them.” 

Shockwave’s abdominal armor begins to visibly bulge. The tentacle continues to pump more spheres into him. Yet, he makes no move to make it stop. If anything, he looks to be enjoying himself immensely. 

“Gross,” Lancer says. She shudders. 

“Which part? Shockwave or the eggs?” Chromia snickers. 

“I’ll bet they are so big.” Moonracer shivers. 

“Probably press so good over all those nodes, ya think?” Firestar chimes in. 

Primus help them. 

“Enough,” Elita says and leans over Greenlight’s shoulder, pressing the button to disengage their access. “Clearly this secure feed is not showing us anything of use.” 

Chromia leers again. “Except that the purple boob must be getting lonely up in that tower of his.” 

“I could use one of those things, if you ask me,” Moonracer says dreamily. 

Lancer makes a gagging noise. 

Elita sighs. She claps her hands together. “All right everyone. Back to business.” She shoos them away from the monitor. “We still have work to do.” 

“So does Shockwave apparently,” Firestar says in a not at all whisper to Chromia. They laugh. 

Elita sighs again.


	217. Stolen Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Jazz/Skywarp  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M   
> Description: They only have an hour, here and there, but for Jazz, it’s worth every second.

“Ow!” 

“Stop squirmin’ and it won’t hurt so much.” 

“Wouldn’t hurt at all if you hadn’t shot me!” 

“If you hadn’t dove at Bluestreak, I wouldn’t have shot you.” 

“Oh.” Skywarp’s uninjured wing twitches, the very picture of indignant. “I see. So that’s how it is.” 

“No. It ain’t even.” Jazz shoves a palm against Skywarp’s cockpit, smearing battle soot on the glass. “Don’t start that pitslag. That ain’t how this works.” 

“This doesn’t work at all,” Skywarp huffs as his finger gestures between them. He’s doing a fair impression of his mercurial trinemate at the moment, too. “You fragging shot me!” 

Jazz shrugs. “Not like it’s the first time.” 

“Not the point!” 

“You’ve shot me before.” 

“I missed,” Skwarp retorts, and his lower lip wobbles, his red optics taking on a soft, pouting hue. 

“Yeah, well, I ain’t known for missing.” Jazz tucks away his emergency medkit and smooths his fingers over the makeshift patch. He scoots a little closer, further up Skywarp’s thighs. “Come on now. We only got an hour, tops. You wanna waste it arguin’ the same old slag?” 

“No.” Skywarp pouts, but wraps Jazz in an embrace anyway. He reeks of the battlefield, but then, so does Jazz. “I’m tired of this.” 

“Me, too, flitterbit.” He rests his helm on Skywarp’s chest, feeling the strong thrum of the Seeker’s spark against his cheek. 

“Hate that,” Skywarp grumbles. 

Jazz chuckles and rises up on his knees to nip at the underside of Skywarp’s chin. “No, ya don’t.” 

Skywarp peers down at him, the light in his optics brighter now, less sulk and more heat. His lips curve into that cheeky grin Jazz loves so much. “Frisky?” 

“An hour. Remember?” 

Skywarp’s hands move to cup Jazz’s aft, pulling him closer. “I do. It’s enough for a quickie or two, right?” 

“Or three,” Jazz corrects and slides his hands around to Skywarp’s back, his fingers sinking into a seam and pinching the cables. 

“Three it is,” Skywarp purrs and hoists Jazz into a kiss, one of eager lips and a wet glossa, and feeling oh-so-good. 

Jazz hums approvingly, his own spark spinning faster. Maybe only an hour here or there, but still worth it, he thinks. Still worth every second.


	218. Predator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Deadlock/Rodimus  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Description: They both liked to play this game. And Deadlock, especially, played to win.

It was the little Prime’s favorite game to play. 

He ran. He pretended he was scared. That he was just a little lost Autobot who accidentally crossed paths with a big, bad Decepticon. 

He ran. But for a mech with a speedster altmode, he was slow. He tripped and fell. He blabbered false bravado. He all but begged to be caught. 

Fortunately, Deadlock liked to play, too. He enjoyed the chase, the hunt. He took his time, until he finally cornered his prey in a gully, surrounded on all sides by sheer rock faces. 

He slopped through mud and pounced, slamming the little Prime into the mire. It splashed around them, dirtying the bright frame. He wrenched one of Rodimus’ hands behind his back, left the other scrabbling about in the dirt. He twisted Rodimus’ arm up, pressing his hand right below his spoiler. He laughed as Rodimus hissed. 

Deadlock ground against that crimson aft, the skreel of metal and metal loud in the air.   
He smelled arousal before he felt it. He smirked as he bit at the little Prime’s finials. 

“Poor little Autobot,” he crooned. 

“Shut up!” 

Rodimus wriggled, but didn’t try very hard. His knees slipped and slid in the muck. He spat out accidental mouthfuls of mud. He was leaking, too. Lubricant seeped around his panel seams, streaking over Deadlock armor. Rodimus was scorching hot, his cooling fans spinning so fast as to vibrate his frame. 

He wanted it bad. 

Deadlock chuckled. “Make me.” He released his spike without any ceremony, rutting it against Rodimus’ still-sealed array. “Knock, knock, little Prime. Let me in.” 

Rodimus moaned. His free hand clawed at the mud, trying to shove his upper frame out of the mire, but he made no move for either of his weapons. 

Bah. Amateur. He hardly put up a fight anymore. 

Deadlock licked the back of Rodimus’ neck. Just for that vulnerable feeling to creep down the Autobot’s spinal strut. “I ain’t got all day,” he growled as he ground harder against Rodimus’ panel and lubricant teased his spikehead. 

Rodimus’ engine roared. “Damn ‘Con!” 

“And yet you want my spike.” Deadlock grazed his denta along the back of Rodimus’ neck. He snarled, “Open!” and bit down hard, sinking his denta into sensitive cables. 

Rodimus keened. His panel snapped open, and Deadlock plunged inside of him, moaning as he was greedily swallowed by an eager, wet, and inviting valve. 

Rodimus bucked up, thrashing, moaning, his field a wild fury of need and desire, and maybe shame on there on the distant edges. Pah. Autobots and their shame. 

Rodimus was clearly enjoying himself. Having fun. They both liked to play this game. 

And Deadlock, especially, played to win.


	219. Again and Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Tarn/Pharma   
> Universe: IDW, MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Description: There were many things about Tarn that Pharma loathed.

There were many things about Tarn that Pharma loathed. 

But his face was the worst of it, that prominent Decepticon badge like a constant reminder of Pharma’s shame. 

He hated how Tarn peered at him through the ocular slits, optics like brimstone and melted slag. 

He especially hated how good it felt to have those ridges and sharp angles scraping over his valve rim. How Tarn’s clawed hands cradled Pharma’s thighs so delicately, keeping his array pressed to Tarn’s mask. 

Heated ex-vents caressed his most sensitive plating – damp and scorching. His nub tapped back and forth over the downward point on Tarn’s mask’s nasal ridge. Pharma’s hips rocked, lubricant dribbling freely, surely seeping down to coat Tarn’s actual face. 

Pharma shuddered and moaned. His hands clawed the air as his wings fluttered. 

Tarn purred, the sound a wave of vibration through Pharma’s center. 

He hated how good it felt. How the pleasure rose and crested inside of him, until he ground his desperate valve over that purple badge, again and again and again. 

How Tarn hummed as though he savored Pharma’s pleasure. “Again,” Tarn urged. 

And Pharma moaned as he started to move, slow and steady, scrapes of rough edges against his swollen rim. 

He hated all of it. Especially how he couldn’t seem to get enough.


	220. Too Damn Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Megatron  
> Universe: IDW, MTMTE Season Two  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Bondage, Dom/Sub themes, Sticky Sex, Painplay  
> Description: Pain was not always about how much something hurt.

Pain, Ratchet had claimed, was not always about how much something hurt. Sometimes, it was the knife-edge feeling of too damn good. 

Megatron hadn’t believed him. Pain came from damage, from despair. It couldn’t come from pleasure. 

He was so very wrong. 

Megatron growled and gasped a ventilation. His cooling fans spun so fast they screeched. The wrist-cuffs rattled, but kept his hands bound above his head. 

His spike throbbed, sending jagged waves of charge through his sensornet. Each dragging pull of Ratchet’s valve over it was an ecstasy Megatron couldn’t keep. Not with the inhibitor ring magnetized to the base, preventing overload. 

A release he desperately craved. 

He’d been on the edge for what felt like hours. Condensation coated his frame. His groin was a mess of lubricant and transfluid both. Ratchet, after all, had ridden him through two overloads and now ground steadily toward a third, without granting Megatron even one. 

Ratchet’s hands were braced on Megatron’s abdomen, bearing his mass, as his hips swiveled and rocked, stirring Megatron’s spike within him. 

“Well,” Ratchet demanded as he slammed down again, valve swallowing Megatron and spitting charge at his spike receptors. “Hurt yet?” 

It took all Megatron had not to sob. It hurt. It burned. It consumed him in a torrent of pleasure until he didn’t know which way was up. 

“Please,” Megatron rasped out. Gone was all trace of defiance. 

Ratchet licked his lips, optics bright and unyielding. “Not ‘til I’m done.” His hips impacted faster and faster, louder and louder, his fans whining. 

Megatron writhed helplessly, trapped on the edge. His spark pulsed, churning. 

He’d asked for Ratchet to break him, to make it hurt. He never expected it would feel like this.


	221. Zap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Perceptor/Brainstorm   
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Electric Play  
> Description: For anyone else, a simple energon prod or electro rod would’ve done the trick. But no. Such things were plebeian for Perceptor.

For anyone else, a simple energon prod or electro rod would’ve done the trick. But no. Such things were plebeian for Perceptor. 

And Brainstorm loved him for it. 

“Stop fidgeting,” Perceptor ordered as he applied the last clamp and tightened it. 

Brainstorm swallowed down a moan. “I’m excited,” he said. 

“Yes, I can see that,” Perceptor replied in a dry tone as he circled the y-frame where Brainstorm was currently bound and visually checked all the clamps. “Patience has never been your strong suit.” 

Brainstorm’s fans spun faster. “No, it’s not. Will you hurry?”

Perceptor tapped on his mask. “Hush.” 

Only then did Perceptor turn toward the portable generator perched on a table behind him. Multiple wires connected it to the clamps attached to Brainstorm. No sensitive zone had been left untouched. 

Especially not his anterior node cluster, which throbbed eagerly once more. 

“We will start slow. A small zap. A taste. And then, perhaps, build to more.” 

Brainstorm squirmed. Anticipation slicked his thighs. 

“Your words, Brainstorm.” 

He wouldn’t need them. Even so, he obediently recited, “Green for go, yellow for wait, red for stop.” Simple but effective. 

“Very good,” Perceptor purred, and the sound vibrated straight to Brainstorm’s spark. “Now we can begin.” 

He flicked a switch and shocking jolt slashed at Brainstorm’s right knee joint like the nibble of a scraplet. It burned and throbbed, and Brainstorm grunted, a low whine rising in his engine, pleasure even sharper on the heels of pain. 

“Be as vocal as you want,” Perceptor murmured. “Remember, this is for science.” 

“For science,” Brainstorm echoed on a moan as another jolt nipped at his left hip, lighting his sensornet afire with need. 

Anything for science.


	222. Pet Ownership

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sunstreaker/Thundercracker, Bob, Buster   
> Universe: IDW, The Transformers  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Pet-us Interruptus  
> Description: Clearly, they needed a better nanny-bot.

At first, Thundercracker ignored the odd scraping, scratching noise. He was too busy exploring the sweet taste of Sunstreaker’s mouth to pay it much attention. Especially since Sunstreaker had become a mech of desperate hands and billowing, needy heat. He made all of those lovely, enticing noises and Thundercracker wanted more of them.

Sunstreaker was gorgeous and responsive and Thundercracker had been waiting a long time to get his hands on the yellow mech. He wanted nothing more than to keep exploring seams and tasting slick, glossy armor and… and…

\--and what the hell was that noise!?

Thundercracker tore his mouth away from Sunstreaker’s, though reluctantly. “What is that?”

“It’s just Bob,” Sunstreaker said and tried to tug him back down, his inner thighs rubbing against the outside of Thundercracker’s. “He gets jealous. Ignore him.”

Jealous? What?

“Does he think I’m going to steal you from him or something?” Thundercracker asked, bewildered.

“Or something,” Sunstreaker purred. His lips curved. “After all, you do have all my attention right now, don’t you?” He rolled his hips upward, scraping their panels together.

Mmm. Attention reacquired.

Thundercracker chuckled. “Yes, I do,” he murmured and leaned back down, intending to recapture Sunstreaker’s mouth.

_Scrabble._

_Bark! Bark! Scrabble!_

_Scrape! Skritch-skritch-skritch. Bark!_

Sunstreaker’s mouth turned away from his at the last second. “That’s not all Bob,” he said.

Thundercracker groaned. “No, it’s Buster, too.”

_Bark! Skritch! Scratch! Scrapity-skritch!_

Sunstreaker sighed. “Sideswipe fails as a nannybot apparently.” His pedes thumped back down to the berth and he flopped back. “Let them in.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Sunstreaker grinned up at him, all smirk and sass, a smile that fluttered Thundercracker’s spark. “We can try again later.”

“Not while they’re in here!”

Sunstreaker snickered. He didn’t understand Thundercracker’s aversion to having an audience. Well, okay, a little show in front of fellow Cybertronians to stake a claim was one thing. ‘Facing in front of their pets was completely different.

“You’re adorable when you’re horrified.”

“Shut up.” Thundercracker bent down and stole a quick kiss before he forced himself to get off the berth and head to the door, where the noise of two jealous pets was becoming raucous indeed.

Better luck next time, he supposed. They just needed a better nannybot.


	223. The Best Worst Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Smokescreen   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Sex Pollen/Aphrodisiac  
> Description: Ratchet felt as though his entire frame had been set ablaze, and only Smokescreen could quench him.

Ratchet should have known better than to touch the weird, pulsing yellow thing in Wheeljack’s laboratory. It had exploded, sending a cloud of particulate into the air and his vents.

The next thing he knew, Smokescreen was quivering and moaning beneath him, his valve dripping and hot, his optics so very blue.

“More,” he demanded with grabby hands and impatient legs locked around Ratchet’s waist.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Ratchet panted, but his spike throbbed and his fingers were buried in Smokescreen and all reason faded.

“Don’t care.” Smokescreen’s field was feverish. His bucking hips left a wet swath on Ratchet’s groin. “Do it.”

He smelled of heat and need and polish and rust sticks. Ratchet’s mouth watered. He was drawn to Smokescreen’s lips as his spike popped free and finally slid home. Smokescreen moaned, so slick and yielding, thighs trembling where they bracketed Ratchet’s hips.

Ratchet bottomed out and gasped, reason slipping through his fingers. Smokescreen squirmed between him and the work bench, making needy noises, and Ratchet couldn’t resist.

He grabbed Smokescreen’s hips and yanked him into each thrust. He bit at Smokescreen’s mouth as though staking a claim. Ratchet felt as though his entire frame had been set ablaze, and only Smokescreen could quench him. He thirsted, mouth dry. Gritty. Like the dust. The plant. The thing he shouldn’t have touched.

Ohhh. This was such a bad idea. The worst kind of idea.

But Smokescreen moaned and writhed and the last of Ratchet’s restraint vanished.

He supposed he’d have to deal with the rest later.


	224. Personal Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Skyfire/Ratchet  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Self-Service  
> Description: There was something intensely arousing about watching Skyfire’s fingers plunge into his own valve.

There was something intensely arousing about watching Skyfire’s fingers plunge into his own valve.

Perhaps it was the wet squelch of lubricant. The low hum of pleasure in Skyfire’s intake. Or the way his hips rolled, his engine purred, and his thighs trembled, the berth beneath his aft soaked with fluids.

Ratchet couldn’t look away. His own systems heated, spike pinging, and desire sending a surge through his lines.

He watched, avid, as Skyfire cupped his own array, shoving his thick fingers deeper. He shivered, armor lifting away from his substructure, his biolights pulsing.

“Tell me what you’re thinking of?” Ratchet asked as he licked his lips.

Skyfire looked down at him, all smiles and soft heat. “You,” he said, “putting your mouth to work. Here.”

His fingers slid free and dragged over the swollen rim of his valve, painting it in lubricant. They glistened in the overhead light.

“That is, if you’re so inclined,” Skyfire purred.

Ratchet’s hands smoothed up Skyfire’s thighs, even as Skyfire pinched his own anterior node, making his engine rev.

“If you overload yourself, I’ll lick you clean,” Ratchet promised. He licked his lips again, imagining the heat and taste of him, the aftermath of a glorious pleasure.

Skyfire groaned and scrubbed the heel of his palm across his array. “Deal.”


	225. Impasse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl/Starscream  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Description: They agree they want each other. They can’t agree on how to keep it.

“There will come a time when private meetings will no longer be enough for me,” Prowl murmurs as he strokes a finger over the glass of Starscream’s cockpit.

“Mm.” Starscream arches into his touch. “If you would only--”

“No.”

“Then we’re still at an impasse.” Seeker talons slide into a hip joint, teasing the delicate cables beneath.

Prowl shivers. “Because you are stubborn.”

Starscream chuckles, dark and seductive. “No more so than you, Autobot.” His inner thigh scrubs against Prowl’s outer thigh, a delightful rasp of metal on metal. “You smell of welds. Who tagged you?”

“Soundwave.”

“He hates you.”

“I’ve noticed.” Prowl leans closer, their lips brushing, static dancing between them. “And you, I see, came uninjured.”

“For once.”

Prowl’s spark squeezes at the qualifier. He nuzzles Starscream’s face, fingers stroking over the flat plane of one wing, below the purple badge. “You could always--”

“No.”

An impasse indeed.

Prowl sighs against his lips. “Very well,” he murmurs and allows himself to indulge in a slow and savoring kiss.

He only has Starscream but for so long. He doesn’t intend to waste it.


	226. Wrecker to Wrecker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Whirl/Perceptor  
> Universe: IDW MTMTE  
> Rating: T  
> Description: Perceptor is a delicious mix of brains and beauty and deadly accuracy and Whirl can’t wait to have another taste.

A frustrated huff. A muttered hiss. A pinch to the ridge of a nasal sensor.

And that’s Whirl’s cue.

He swaggers into the lab and sidles up to Perceptor’s side, hooking his field into Perceptor’s and giving it a tug.

“So,” he says with an indolent drape of his frame, “Ya look like ya could use a distracting break.”

Perceptor gives him a sidelong look. “Are you volunteering?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” He inches closer, until he can smell the heat of Perceptor’s armor. “What d’ya say? For old times sake? Wrecker to Wrecker?”

“I have work to do.”

Whirl laughs. “No problem. I know how to make things quick.” He vibrates his field against Perceptor’s, adding a touch of heat and spark to it.

Perceptor’s field at once opens to his, bright and hungry. “You have ten minutes,” he says, setting down some kind of doodad.

“More than I need.”

Whirl pins Perceptor against the work bench, pleasure unfurling eagerly inside of him. Perceptor is a delicious mix of brains and beauty and deadly accuracy and Whirl can’t wait to have another taste.

“Might even get two out of it,” he says.

Perceptor smirks, his targeting reticule glinting. “Prove it.”

“With pleasure.”

Oh, this is going to be _fun._


	227. Merciless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Tarn/Pharma  
> Universe: IDW MTMTE  
> Rating: M   
> Warnings: Sticky Sex  
> Description: Once upon a time, a mech like Pharma would have sneered at the very idea of Tarn.

  
There are few sights as intoxicating as a panting, squirming jet all but begging for relief.

Pharma rides three of Tarn’s fingers, his hips rolling into the thumb against his anterior node. His frame drips with condensation. His engines whine. His field is a suffocating frenzy, and Tarn revels in it.

Once upon a time, a mech like Pharma would have sneered at the very idea of Tarn. Now, he gasps, thirsty and desperate, optics bright and pleading.

“Can I--”

“No.” Tarn’s thumb rubs firmer circles and Pharma whimpers.

The medic gnaws on his bottom lip. His hands claw at the berth, for he’s been forbidden to touch Tarn or himself. He hasn’t earned either.

Pharma’s valve clasps hungrily around Tarn’s fingers. Lubricant flows freely, seeping into his joints, pooling beneath Pharma’s aft.

Charge dances from beneath his armor, lighting up the room.

“Rust you,” Pharma snarls in clips of static. But his field screams desire and his biolights pulse faster.

Tarn drinks in the sight. He frags Pharma with fingers alone while Pharma begs for more.

Relief is his to grant. And Tarn prides himself on his lack of mercy.

Poor, poor Pharma.


	228. Mines, Yours, Ours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Drift/Megatron  
> Universe: MTMTE, Season Two  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex  
> Description: Drift squirms between them, not caring who does what so long as they are both touching him.

Drift isn’t sure which of them said it first. He supposes it doesn’t matter given that they’ve achieved the desired result. That it’s led to this.

Him. In Megatron’s lap. Kissing his former commander as though his spark depends on it. Oil sloshes around them, warm and soothing, but nothing compared to the blaze of Megatron’s frame pressed against his. It is somehow both foreign and familiar and Drift craves more, more, **more** until the voice hooks fingers in his desperation and drags him out of the past.

“I suppose I should leave you two be then,” Ratchet drawls, the words teasing but his tone hinting at something deeper.

Drift pulls away from the kiss, his face awash with embarrassment. But Megatron smirks and cups his aft before slanting that grin at Ratchet.

“You are every bit a part of this, my dear Ratchet,” Megatron purrs. “So you can choose to sulk or you can wade across this pool and join us.”

Drift’s optics widen even as lust spikes tenfold within him.

Ratchet and Megatron both? At once? Around him or within him or both?

 _Please_. He’ll beg if he must.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” Ratchet grumps, never one to back down from a challenge. He sloshes across the pool and his hands slide up Drift’s back, traveling familiar paths of pleasure, provoking a shiver from Drift. “He’s mine, too.”

Drift moans. He squirms between them, not caring who does what so long as they _touch_ him.

“Please,” he says.

“You need only ask.” Megatron kisses him, soft and sweet, and Drift trembles.

Because Ratchet is here, too. Stroking him. Teasing him. Pressing against him.

Right now, there is literally no place else Drift would rather be.

  



	229. The Switcharoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Rodimus/Minimus Ambus  
> Universe: IDW MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Body Swap  
> Description: Making the most of a weird situation has never been this much fun.

He is one _fine_ piece of aft, Rodimus decides as he crawls up his own frame, plants his aft on his own thighs, and traces his seams with very clever, small, and green fingers.

The weirdness of looking at himself is quickly eclipsed by appreciation. Damn, but he looks good.

“I must admit, this is more than a little disconcerting,” Minimus says with Rodimus’ voice. But he shivers and arches and his panel springs open as Rodimus touches him. “Though your frame feels otherwise.”

Rodimus chuckles, and wow, but Minimus has a cute laugh. He should use it more often.

“I’m a ‘Hot Rod’ remember?” he says. “It doesn’t take much.”

“So I see.” Minimus gasps as his spike (or Rodimus’ depending on your point of view) pressurizes, glossy and firm and very nice indeed. “Or feel, I should say. How do you endure this need?”

Rodimus is curious enough to touch himself, feel the nubs on his spike without the feedback from his own tactile sensors. “Practice,” he says with a squeeze to the flame-emblazoned unit. “Can I even fit in you?”

His own face looks back at him, Minimus amused behind the smirk. “You are not _that_ large, Rodimus.”

“Hey!” He squeezes himself, feels the throb of his own spike, and is rewarded with a visible shiver.

Damn, but he has a pretty spike. Feels good, too. Rodimus is going to enjoy riding it. Even Minimus’ valve agrees. It quivers and seeps lubricant.

“You don’t need any special prep, do you?” Rodimus asks as he wriggles forward, so that he can rock against his spike. It feels good against the swollen lip of his borrowed valve.

The heat pooling in Minimus’ belly is slow and liquid, different than the sharp ache Rodimus is more familiar with in his own frame.

Minimus slips a hand between Rodimus’ thighs, and it should be strange to watch his own fingers stroke over a pale green valve rim. But it’s not. Because it feels good. So damn good.

“I don’t,” Minimus says, and it comes out a purr, in Rodimus’ own voice. “But it never hurts to indulge.”

Rodimus shivers. “No, it doesn’t,” he agrees.

This is going to be so much fun.

  



	230. Spoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Megatron/Ultra Magnus  
> Universe: IDW MTMTE  
> Rating: T  
> Description: Tonight, it was Megatron’s turn to be the ‘little spoon’.

Tonight, it was Megatron’s turn to be the ‘little spoon’ as Rodimus so elegantly informed him it was to be called. Whatever the term, Megatron found himself sharing a berth with Ultra Magnus.

The large, blue mech lay beneath him, easily cradling Megatron’s frame, which was a novelty to Megatron. He wasn’t used to such a thing. He currently rested his head on Ultra Magnus’ chestplate and could hear the click and thrum of his systems beneath. Magnus’ engine idled, vibrating and warm.

It was both comfortable and soothing. It was peaceful, quiet companionship, something which had always been in short supply.

Well, quiet beyond the fact Magnus was reading aloud. As the ‘big spoon,’ he had the choice of literature and tonight was a selection of epic poems – stories, if you asked Megatron to describe them.

He wasn’t paying much attention to the words. It was more Ultra Magnus’ voice that drew him. That and the calm, affectionate hum of Magnus’ field.

They had so few opportunities to indulge in the moment. Megatron intended to soak it in as much as possible.

Tomorrow evening, he would be the ‘big spoon’ to Minimus Ambus. Tit for tat, after all.

Fortunately, he didn’t mind one bit.


	231. Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Drift/Ratchet  
> Universe: IDW MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Description: A sleeping Ratchet was a tempting Ratchet, one whom Drift wanted so desperately to kiss.

A sleeping Ratchet was a tempting Ratchet. The creases of stress were gone from his face. His armor loosened, offering tantalizing glimpses of the cables and structures beneath. His engine idled so quietly as to not be audible. The smallest of curves graced his lips.

Drift desperately wanted to kiss him. He skimmed his hands along Ratchet’s thighs, tracing armor in need of a strip, wax, and repaint. Self-care, for Ratchet, was never high on his to-do list.

It needed to be.

Drift swore that in the shadows between Ratchet’s thighs, lubricant glistened on a still bared valve. Drift’s mouth watered. He wanted to bury his face down there, lick Ratchet awake, and then lick Ratchet to overload. He wanted to walk around with the taste of Ratchet on his lips.

Drift hummed deep in his chassis. He stroked down toward Ratchet’s knees. Ratchet’s field plucked at his, strumming pleasure as though he were an instrument.

Drift shivered. He moved closer, his armor nudging against Ratchet’s in a wonderful slide of metal against metal. Heat floated from his substructure, wafting over Ratchet. The medic twitched, making a soft sound, and one of his arms moved.

Drift eyed it warily and tensed. But all Ratchet did was grope blindly, until his arm looped around Drift’s chassis and abruptly tugged.

Drift muffled a yelp as he tumbled forward, sprawling across Ratchet’s broad chassis. The soft idle of Ratchet’s engine turned into a warm purr. He cradled Drift against him, thighs lightly bracketing Drift’s hips. He was snug and tucked against Ratchet’s array and ooo, it was bared.

Drift licked his lips. He swallowed a groan as he buried his nasal ridge against Ratchet’s intake.

“Stop squirming.” Ratchet’s arm tightened around him.

“I’m not.” Drift slid a hand against Ratchet’s side, hooking his fingers in a transformation seam. “You’re seducing me.”

“I’m recharging,” Ratchet retorted.

“And looking really adorable while doing it.” Drift pressed a kiss to Ratchet’s intake, and felt the vibrations of Ratchet’s vocalizer against his lips. “So really, it’s your fault. Ow!”

Ratchet had pinched his tire.

“Hush. Sleep now.”

Drift wriggled. “Can’t.”

“Too bad.”

Drift ex-vented over Ratchet’s intake cables, making Ratchet shiver. He grinned against Ratchet’s intake. He squirmed.

Ratchet pinched his tire again. “Don’t make me toss you off this berth.”

Drift laughed. “You wouldn’t.”

The medic’s engine grumbled at him. “If you stop squirming and go to sleep, I promise to suck you off in the morning.”

Drift stilled. His spark throbbed, as did his array. “Really, Ratchet? Bribery?”

“There’s still the option of tossing you off the berth.”

Drift’s forehelm thunked against Ratchet’s shoulder. He ex-vented hotly. “I’ll behave.”

Ratchet stroked over his tire, probably in an attempt to be soothing, but all it did was remind Drift of how much he wanted to kiss Ratchet right now.

“But you owe me an overload,” Drift muttered.

Ratchet’s arm squeezed his chassis, pinning him against the medic’s chestplate. “Put it on my tab.” His field rippled against Drift’s before it smoothed over again, the soft pulses of a mech sliding back into recharge.

Damn it. If he wasn’t so darn adorable.

Drift sighed and told his heated frame to heel. A little delayed pleasure never hurt anyone, he supposed.

Besides, he could still lick Ratchet out in the morning if he wanted. Something to look forward to then.

Drift grinned and shuttered his optics. To recharge it was.


	232. Mouthy Racers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Drift/Blurr  
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, DomSub themes  
> Description: Blurr was much easier on the audials when he didn’t speak

  
“I told you to be quiet, Speed Racer,” Drift said as he smoothed his hands up Blurr’s thighs, his fingers teasing into the vent slats.

Blurr glared at him and muffled a grunt around the ball gag.

“It’s not my fault you don’t have any self-control.” Drift smirked.

He couldn’t help but admire the Racer perched on his lap. Blurr’s wrists were cuffed behind his back, and he straddled Drift, thighs splayed wide. His cables creaked and trembled as he struggled to keep his balance.

That only the upper third of Drift’s spike breached his valve might have had something to do with it, too. Blurr’s calipers fluttered restlessly, clutching at Drift’s spikehead. He leaked lubricant steadily. Heat poured from his frame.

“Couldn’t have you biting me either,” Drift added and leaned back to admire, his fingers still plucking at Blurr’s thigh vents. “Besides, we have a deal, remember?”

Blurr’s optics flashed, but he started to move. Little rocks, forward and back, of his hips. He lifted himself, achingly slow, and sank back down. He fragged himself on Drift’s spike without any help on Drift’s part. His biolights pulsed fitfully. His spike remained locked behind a rattling panel. As they’d agreed.

Blurr was _much_ easier on the audials when he didn’t speak. Drift really enjoyed locking all that arrogance behind a gag, even if it was earned.

Drift grinned. “A deal’s a deal.”

‘And next time, it’s _my_ pick,’ Blurr said over the comm.

Tsk, tsk. Technically not against the terms, but still bad form. Sneaky little Racer. He’d have to pay a penalty for that later.

But for now.

Drift snuck a hand up Blurr’s legs and gave him a light swat on the aft. “Get moving,” he said. “I want to see an overload.”

Blurr growled at him, but he lifted and dropped himself faster, his hips rolling to swallow Drift’s spike deeper.

Perfect.

  



	233. Ask Nicely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Arcee/Knock Out  
> Universe: TFP  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: BDSM themes, Oral, Sticky Sex  
> Description: Arcee was a menace. And Knock Out would tell her so as soon as his mouth was free.

Arcee was a menace.

And Knock Out would be sure to tell her so the moment his mouth was no longer occupied with her spike. Which, by the way, kept nudging at the back of his intake and seeping pre-fluid over his glossa.

Her hand cradled his helm, keeping him in place. Her thumb teased his finials, sending shocks of pleasure down his spinal strut.

“This, I think, is the best use for that smart mouth of yours,” she purred.

“Mmph.” His outrage was both muffled and buried under another wave of arousal as she rolled her hips forward, her spike gliding across his glossa.

Arcee chuckled. “You don’t agree?” She looked down at him and withdrew her spike, curling her hand around it so that she could paint his lips with the tip. “Or maybe you want something else?”

“Yes. A little attention for once,” Knock Out retorted, rolling his frame toward her, and specifically his hips. Not that he had much room to move, given the shackles keeping his wrists bound behind his back and to the back of the chair.

Her pre-fluid was sticky on his lips. He licked it away.

“Is that so?” Arcee stepped back and dropped down, straddling his lap. Her spike poked at his belly, leaving a swipe of fluid on his freshly polished armor. She did so love marking him. “Then ask me nicely.”

A menace. Clear and simple.

Knock Out twitched against the chair. His ankle-struts had been bound to the legs of the chair, forcing his knees spread wide, baring his array. His valve pulsed longingly. Every puff of air teased his swollen rim. There was a growing puddle beneath his aft. His spike throbbed behind his panel.

Argh.

“Please,” he gritted out, never one to submit gracefully. That sounded too much like giving Arcee what she wanted. And Knock Out was not an obedient pet.

Unless he wanted to be.

“Can I have your spike?” Knock Out demanded.

“Mmm. No.” Arcee draped her arms over his shoulders, her long fingers teasing into the rims of his upper tires. “That greedy valve of yours definitely hasn’t earned it.”

Knock Out heard a click before he felt lubricant drip onto his spike panel. It was searing hot, such a tease. His vents stuttered. His spike throbbed harder.

“But maybe if you satisfy mine, I’ll play with yours.” Arcee rolled her hips again, grinding her spike against his ventrum, the heat of her valve such a tease above his spike panel.

Knock Out shivered and tugged at his bonds. They didn’t budge. “Menace,” he hissed.

Arcee hummed a laugh. “Maybe I am. Now give me your spike.”

Knock Out’s panel snicked aside, frame hastening to obey. He wasn’t even ashamed anymore, and especially not when Arcee immediately moved to sink down over him, swallowing his spike in one fell swoop.

His engine roared, threatening to kick into overheat.

Damn menace was what she was. Right down to the smirk on her lips. And the squeeze-clench-grip of her valve.

Guh.

  



	234. In Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Whirl/Blurr  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Public Sex, Sticky Sex  
> Description: This was Whirl’s favorite hallway.

This was officially Whirl’s favorite hallway.

Why?

Because there was a blindspot in the security system and a trick of acoustics meant you didn’t know someone was there until you rounded the corner and ran into them.

And also because it was the perfect spot for a frag. Especially for hungry little Racers eager for a thick spike and an audience.

Like the pretty blue one currently slurping at Whirl’s spike and making all of these hungry noises. His lips were shiny with lubricant and a puddle was forming between his knees.

Whirl carefully cradled Blurr’s head in one pincer, but even if he accidentally nicked Blurr’s crest, the Racer never seemed to mind. And especially since Whirl gave him spike whenever he wanted.

 _Somebody_ certainly missed the crowd, didn’t he? All that adulation and praise?

No problem.

If Blurr wanted to suck him slick in a public corridor, then ride his spike where anyone could see them – fine by Whirl.

He’d give the Racer all the praise and attention he wanted in return. It was hardly a trial. Blurr was a pretty, pretty mech.

And Whirl always did like the pretty ones.


	235. Impasse Take Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl/Starscream   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M   
> Description: This is how cheesy romantic data-novels start. Only they still part ways in the end.

“Oh no. Poor me. I have been trapped in this tiny tunnel with an Autobot. Whatever shall I do?”

“Starscream.”

He smirked at the neutral tone and lounged against a fallen slab of metal, swiveling his gaze toward the black and white Autobot. “What? I’m just playing the part. That was my distress call.” He flicked a hand dismissively.

Prowl’s expression did not change. “You planned this.”

Starscream rolled his optics. “Yes. You got me. My whole goal was to collapse a building on top of us. It could, at any moment, crush us beneath its weight, but that’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” His grin was razor-sharp.

One sensory flat twitched and then the other. “The debris is stable.”

“Well. That’s a relief.”

Prowl crossed his arms and gave Starscream a long, penetrating look. Starscream hated those. It always seemed Prowl could look right through him.

“I estimate we have two hours before we see rescue.”

“You,” Starscream corrected in a mild tone. “No one’s coming for me.”

Prowl dropped his arms and sighed. “Don’t,” he said as he moved closer, the lights of his headlamps swaying with each step. “You know that’s not true.”

“It is.” Starscream watched him warily. What in the world was he up to? “We agreed. Remember?”

“I do,” Prowl murmured, but the reminder didn’t stop him from straddling Starscream’s lap.

“What’re you doing?”

Prowl’s hands slipped up his chassis, framing his cockpit. “We have two hours left. Let’s not waste them.” His chest armor clicked and jittered, hints of sparklight peeking through.

Starscream’s vents stuttered. He cupped Prowl’s head, brushing his thumb over the tactician’s cheek. “So you _do_ take risks,” he purred.

“Only when the reward is worth it.” Prowl leaned closer, his ex-vents brushing over Starscream’s lips. “I would’ve come for you.”

His spark squeezed into a tiny ball. “I know,” Starscream said, and he let Prowl kiss him, their glossas tangling in a familiar dance.

If only.

  



	236. Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Drift   
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Self-Service  
> Description: Drift’s memory is just enough to make him ashamed. 
> 
> (italicized lines direct dialogue from MTMTE)

_Do you feel threatened?_

Hot weight. Heavy weight. Sharp ex-vents. Low growl. Unforgiving table. Dented armor.

_Do you feel threatened?_

Hand on his neck. Face down. Denta gritted. Throbbing surprise. Scent of cold metal, old metal. Field as heavy as the frame.

_Do you feel threatened?_

Unexpected arousal. Fury in its wake. Walls crumbled. In came shame. Flooding. Consuming. Liquid and volcanic.

_Do you feel threatened?_

“Yeargh!”

Drift overloaded with a snarl, his expression better a grimace, his hand so tight on his spike that his joints ached. Transfluid spattered on his fingers, his groin, searing hot, as pleasure raced through his lines.

He panted, vents heaving, frame shaking, audials ringing.

_Do you feel threatened?_

He squeezed his optics shut as the release echoed through his frame. His spark thudded inside his chamber. His knees quaked.

_Do you feel threatened?_

He didn’t dare admit the truth aloud.

The release staining his fingers was proof enough.

  



	237. Lewd Behavior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Tarn/Deathsaurus   
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Beast-mode facing  
> Description: This was, perhaps, the single most lewd act Tarn had ever committed.

This was, perhaps, the single most lewd act Tarn had ever committed.

Yet, he was both eager and excited, his valve already slick and open, his spark thumping an anticipatory rhythm. His lines pulsed with desire and he gripped the berth edge, bracing himself.

“Are you certain?” Deathsaurus asked, his vocals harsh and echoing in his alternate form.

Tarn shuddered. “I will let you know when I’m not,” he replied, a touch waspish, but his own lust embarrassed him.

Deathsaurus chuckled. “Good to know.” He pressed against Tarn from behind, the heat and mass of him pinning Tarn to the berth edge.

The thick, ridged shape of his spike nosed at Tarn’s aft. The tapered tip left a wet streak as it skittered down between his thighs.

Deathsaurus thrust forward, spike grazing Tarn’s valve rim and node.

He rose forward on the tips of his feet, moaning. His valve clenched, lubricant drizzling down on Deathsaurus spike.

Tarn shivered.

Deathsaurus had a framed image capture above his berth. The clear glass reflected well and in it, Tarn could see himself, the wanton glow of his optics behind his mask.

And Deathsaurus crowded behind him. All wings and fangs and claws. A beast. Power personified.

Tarn moaned again and canted his aft backward.

“Do it,” he demanded.

Deathsaurus’ engine rolled into a growl. There was promise in the sound.

Tarn couldn’t wait.

  



	238. One Lucky Fan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Skywarp/Blurr  
> Universe: IDW, pre-war  
> Rating: M   
> Description: There’s nothing quite like having a panting, squirming hot piece of Racer aft in your lap.

There’s nothing quite like having a panting, squirming hot piece of aft in your lap. Especially when that hot piece is the Blurr.

Damn but Skywarp is the luckiest Seeker in all of Cybertron.

He’s got one hand wrapped around an absolutely gorgeous spike, and the other cupping a very fine aft. Blurr is hot and charged and yummy, and Skywarp just wants to eat him up. Metaphorically, anyway. Skywarp’s not a terrorcon.

Besides, Blurr’s got a hand around Skywarp’s spike, too. He’s stroking Skywarp in long, squeezing pulls, oh so slowly. Skywarp didn’t even know Blurr could go so slow, but oh, does he like it.

Skywarp moans, his wings fluttering. He rolls his hips forward, even as Blurr rocks into his grip, too.

“Never done it like this before,” he admits, somewhat breathless.

The Blurr smirks at him, all confidence and charm. “Never corrupted a Seeker before,” he purrs with a heated ex-vent.

“Hey, I’m not innocent,” Skywarp retorts, even as heat drizzles down his spinal strut and pre-fluid dribbles from his tip, staining Blurr’s fingers.

Blurr chuckles, tenor and low, the sound vibrating in Skywarp’s spark chamber. He hooks an arm over Skywarp’s shoulder and hauls himself closer, until his thrusts forward, rocks his spike and Skywarp’s fingers over Skywarp’s spike and Blurr’s fingers.

“Maybe not, flyboy, but I know things you’ve never even dreamed of,” he murmurs, all hot ex-vents and purring engine.

Skywarp’s cooling fans turn on with a splutter. He isn’t ashamed to say he’s dripping with lust. The Blurr is not, even if he does know it.

“Show me,” he demands.

“Mm.” Blurr nips at the bottom of his jaw, optics glittering as they look up at him. “With pleasure.”

  



	239. Rewards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Starscream/Soundwave  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: Spanking, Sticky Sex  
> Description: Trying to get Soundwave over his knee was an exercise in hilarity, until an appropriately sized chair mysteriously appeared in Starscream’s room.

Trying to get Soundwave over his knee was an exercise in hilarity, until an appropriately sized chair mysteriously appeared in Starscream’s room. No longer would they have to try and balance a blocky dock across Starscream’s thighs.

Starscream smirked to himself and promptly invited Soundwave over for the evening.

The usually stoic mech arrived within moments, sans his cassettes, his frame jittery and his field pulsing an excited heat. It was kind of cute actually.

Starscream didn’t waste time with preamble. He plopped his aft down on the chair and summoned Soundwave with a crook of his finger.

Soundwave all but leapt to obey.

“This isn’t much of a punishment,” Starscream commented with a chuckle as Soundwave nearly threw himself over Starscream’s knees, the two-tiered structure of the chair making it easier for him to stay in place.

“Apologies,” Soundwave said, his engine rumbling eagerly and his vents blasting heat against Starscream’s abdomen.

A quiet click accompanied him shifting about, and Starscream swept a hand over his aft, fingers dipping between Soundwave’s thighs and emerging with lubricant slicking them.

No, this was more like a reward in Starscream’s opinion.

He rested his free hand across Soundwave’s back as Soundwave’s arms wrapped around his right leg. His aft pushed back, with what little leverage he had, bumping up against Starscream’s palm in silent entreaty.

“Will you overload from this?” Starscream asked as he smoothed his palm over Soundwave’s aft, teasing him with anticipation.

Soundwave’s armor rattled. “Affirmative.”

Starscream licked his lips. “Good,” he purred, and rapped his talon-tips over Soundwave’s plating, just to hear it chime. “Give me a loud one, Soundwave.”

Soundwave’s hands squeezed on his calf. “Yes, sir.”

Starscream shivered, heat bolting up his backstrut. He rubbed his palm over Soundwave’s aft again, mentally planning his strikes.

This was going to be delightful.

  



	240. Vocal Commands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Perceptor/Ratchet   
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Overload Delay/Denial, Sticky Sex  
> Description: Give me what I want, pet. Surrender to the pleasure. Let it seethe in your lines and make your spark dance.

He’d kept Ratchet like this for hours: bound, trembling, overheated, charge boiling out from under his armor.

Each in-vent was a staticky gasp. His optics were bright and sparking. The dark, glossy bindings stood out in stark relief against white armor, which was becoming streaked with condensation.

He was beautiful like this.

“You’re close,” Perceptor said, more observation than question. “I can taste it.”

He was near enough to touch, if he so desired. But he didn’t allow himself to do so. That wasn’t the name of the game this time. A challenge had been laid.

“You deserve it, Ratchet. You’ve been such a good pet,” Perceptor praised as he let his gaze rove over Ratchet with appreciation. “You’ve behaved for once. And now you’re going to obey. You’re going to overload because I said so.”

Ratchet’s engine whined. His thighs trembled. His field crackled, much in the way his vocalizer did when he tried to speak.

“C—c—c—” The word caught, the syllable repeating itself, a sure sign of a scorched fuse.

Beautiful.

“Yes, you can,” Perceptor said. He leaned close, enough to feel Ratchet’s ex-vents but not touch. “Because when you do, I will claim you. Again and again. Until the only name you remember is mine.”

Ratchet moaned. His armor juttered. Lightning crawled out from beneath armor plates to decorate his paint.

“Now,” Perceptor murmured and let his field unfurl enough to taste Ratchet’s. “Give me what I want, pet. Surrender to the pleasure. Let it seethe in your lines and make your spark dance for me.”

He paused, enraptured by the sight of Ratchet writhing, of him dangling on the precipice. Perceptor licked his lips.

“Do it,” he growled. “ _Overload.”_

And Ratchet obeyed, loosing his grip and thrashing as pleasure stripped him raw and sent arcs of charge spilling into the air. Peerceptor could taste the discharge, the ozone, and Primus, was it heady. His own frame thrummed with anticipation. He grinned as Ratchet made inarticulate noises and writhed.

Good medic.

  



	241. A Haze of Ecstasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Cyclonus/Prowl/Whirl  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Threesome  
> Description: Cyclonus had a rhythm; Whirl did not. It was impossible to predict or anticipate them, and Prowl loved every fragging second of it.

Cyclonus had a rhythm; Whirl did not. It was impossible to predict or anticipate them, and Prowl loved every fragging second of it.

He moaned around the spike in his mouth, lubricant bubbling up around his lips and dribbling over his chin. His hands curled into fists, bound as they were at the base of his backstrut and by the wrists.

Cyclonus’ hold on his head was gentle, but firm. His thumbs occasionally swept over Prowl’s cheeks as though enticed by the way they puffed as Cyclonus smoothly stroked into his mouth.

Prowl’s valve quivered, calipers clutching hungrily at the spike plunging into it. Whirl, by contrast, had no rhythm and seemed to delight in surprising Prowl.

Shallow and fast. Deep and slow. Grinding circles. Rutting rubs that flirted with Prowl’s rim and exterior clusters. It was maddening. It was wonderful.

Whirl held his hips with as much firm gentleness as Cyclonus. Every pinch of his claws was on purpose, a planned sting to rev Prowl’s engine.

Cyclonus was silent, his engine purring, his field a song of pleasure and want. Meanwhile, Whirl babbled a pretty string of filthy praise and encouragement. Both made Prowl’s spark shimmer.

He almost didn’t want them to overload, content as he was to float in this haze of ecstasy. Drowning in waves of push-pull, taken and claimed, offered and used.

Prowl’s optics shuttered. He gave himself over to it.

Sheer, utter bliss.


	242. A Real Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Whirl/Mirage (past)  
> Universe: IDW  
> Rating: T  
> Description: They had a past, one Mirage pretended didn’t exist.

To say that he did not recognize Whirl would be a lie.

Mirage knew. He’d always known. But he didn’t have the words. He never knew what to say.

He’d grieved. He’d made himself move on. He’d learned what had become of his lover and to his shame, he’d been horrified.

He let biased thinking sway him. He allowed poisonous whispers to color his spark.

He feigned ignorance so as not to face what Whirl had become.

And he hated himself for being a coward.

He hated himself more for letting chance after opportunity pass him by because it was so much easier to be invisible.

But the war was over and Mirage tired of running. They said that those who found an endura were the lucky ones. He struggled to remember what that meant.

He couldn’t move on without coming clean.

“I am sorry,” he blurted out after he’d knocked on the door with bated ventilations and it had opened to him. “I was wrong. I know I was. I missed you.”

He kept it simple. Frank. He dropped all trappings of a noble life best forgotten.

“Well, you’re sorry and I’m sorry,” Whirl said and he shifted, leaning forward, offering something which he then dropped into Mirage’s cupped hands.

It made a little _tink_ noise. It was a clock, a small one, like Whirl hadn’t made in millennia. Not since…

“That’s the way it is,” Whirl said.

Mirage curled his fingers around the gift. He nodded. He understood.

This time, at least, it was a real goodbye.

  



	243. Lazy Morning In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Rung/Skids   
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M  
> Description: That was the deal. Rung uses tickles and Skids likes something a little naughtier.

Skids was ticklish. A tiny little detail that Rung was utterly delighted to discover. Not only was he ticklish, but he always chuckled so softly, his field blooming with happiness, when Rung took advantage of it.

Which was why, the mornings when Rung onlined first, with Skids wrapped around him and over him and generally swallowing him in a stuffy embrace, Rung’s first reaction was to tickle. To slide his fingers into open seams and ex-vent little bursts of air into Skids’ intake until his lover squirmed around him.

“Wake up,” Rung murmured, lips brushing an intake cable so softly it was feather-light. “I’m overheating again.” As he always did when Skids turned into a many-limbed creature in the middle of the night.

Skids wriggled, a little giggle bubbling up in his vocalizer. Rung’s fingers slid deeper, tickling over cables and struts as Skids’ field onlined and rolled over him infectious humor.

“You are a menace,” he murmured sleepily, and only tightened his embrace, head tilting down to nuzzle the top of Rung’s.

“And your alt-mode must be that of a furnace,” Rung said, words muffled into Skids’ chestplate. “Why are you so hot?”

A hand slid down, cupping Rung’s aft and giving it a squeeze. “Must be your fault,” he said with a little laugh. “I’m always subconsciously trying to warm you up.” He patted Rung’s aft before his hand lingered, a noticeable weight.

Ah. Well, he did have a point. Rung’s resting temperature did happen to be several degrees cooler than the average mech, especially if the average mech happened to have a vehicular alt-mode.

“And now it seems you are consciously attempted to do so,” Rung said as his lips curved with amusement. He squirmed, pushing his aft back into Skids’ hand.

Skids’ lips brushed his forehead. “So you’ve seen through my clever ruse. I knew you would.” His hand slid down, fingers dipping between Rung’s thighs. “Don’t we have a deal, Rung? You wake me up with tickles and I...”

Rung arched into Skids’ touch, purposefully spreading his thighs. “--get to wake us both up with an overload or three.” An electric thrill danced up his spinal strut as his spark whirled with delight.

Skids chuckled. “Mm. That’s right.” His lips trekked a path over Rung’s forehead before they traveled further down, just enough for Rung to tilt his head up and meet them.

Nothing beat a lazy morning in.

  



	244. Awake and Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Drift/Ratchet   
> Universe: MTMTE  
> Rating: M   
> Description: It’s me. You’re safe. We’re safe. It’s a mantra Ratchet has to remind Drift of, over and over.

Even here, on the tiny shuttle, with no one else around for lightyears, Drift recharged tensely, as though he feared something would attack at any moment. They’d fall asleep in each other’s arms, Drift sprawled on top of Ratchet as if trying to keep him from leaving, their fields entangled. And Ratchet would online – first, always first, there were some things you couldn’t beat in a medic’s coding – and he’d find Drift’s armor clamped, his field withdrawn, and his position shifted so that he faced the door, prepared for threats.

It broke Ratchet’s spark every time.

But he supposed only a few months worth of co-recharging, field-mingling, and snuggling wasn’t enough to overcome a lifetime’s worth of self-preservation.

He knew better than to startle. To speak. To touch. He always reached for Drift with his field first, energies lightly caressing the furthest edge of Drift’s own, announcing himself with a soft sweep above Drift’s shoulder.

 _It’s me. You’re safe. We’re safe._ He repeated it, over and over, until Drift started to stir. Until his engine kicked on with a quiet purr. Until he turned, ever so slowly, in the softest grip of recharge, into Ratchet’s embrace. He nuzzled Ratchet’s chestplate – unfairly adorable, if Ratchet might add – and his hand slid around Ratchet’s waist, fingers sliding and tucking into a seam.

Drift’s field responded, sliding into the nooks and crannies of Ratchet’s own, pulsing back recognition and affection and the tiniest kernels of trust. All very good signs.

Ratchet rested his hand on Drift’s shoulder, and when he didn’t acquire an armful of snarling, armed, fanged, angry little speedster, he knew he’d done his job right. He slid his hand down, ever so gently, until his palm pressed against Drift’s back, stroking a sensitive armor plate.

Drift shivered in his arms. He hummed a happy little noise and burrowed harder against Ratchet’s chestplate, ex-vents fogging the clear transsteel. He threw a thigh over Ratchet’s and ground his pelvic array against Ratchet, heat already stirring behind his panel.

Ratchet chuckled softly. “I know you’re awake,” he murmured as he dipped his helm, nipping at a finial.

There was a click before Ratchet felt the hot damp against his thigh. More than awake then. Awake and ready.

Must have been a night of good dreams for once then.

“That the game we’re playing now?” Ratchet murmured, his denta nipping again at the finial as Drift undulated against him.

“Every morning,” Drift murmured even as his fingers curled into Ratchet’s seams and tugged on his armor plates. “Til we get back.”

“And even after,” Ratchet replied and nudged his thigh against Drift’s closed, yet blazing hot array. “I said it and I meant it, Drift.”

“I know.” Drift tipped his head up and buried his mouth in Ratchet’s intake, lips and denta alike scraping a path of liquid pleasure, followed by soft and soothing kisses. “ _I know_.”

  



	245. Mistaken Identity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Shockwave, Blurr  
> Universe: Animated   
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: Mistaken identity  
> Description: It was a rust-forsaken, slag-filled bar on the edge of the fragging galaxy and the chance of an Autobot walking through those doors was a million-to-one.

It was a rust-forsaken, slag-filled bar on the edge of the fragging galaxy and the chance of an Autobot walking through those doors was a million-to-one. Yet, no sooner had Shockwave placed an order for oil – the likes of which linger horrifically in his tank for solar cycles – then the door slid open and a slim, blue frame stepped inside.

Blurr.

Of all the bars in all the universe, he’d had to walk into the one where Shockwave was attempting to make contact with a Decepticon double-agent. He wasn’t even supposed to be on assignment here! This was Ricochet’s territory!

Well this just wouldn’t do at all.

Shockwave thanked his own good sense that he hadn’t come here as either Longarm or under his Decepticon colors. Right now, he was an unassuming, mid-sized Neutral with a dingy paint job and a charming smile.

Blurr might not recognize him as he was. But he’d sure as frag recognize Shockwave’s Decepticon contact.

Shockwave snagged his drink as the bartender sloshed it to the counter, and slipped through the crowd, heading off the slim agent before Blurr could make it too far into the thronged space. They weren’t the only metallic beings here, just the only Cybertronians, and they stuck out like rust spots

“What’s a fine looking piece of Autobot aft like you, doin’ in a place like this,” Shockwave drawled as he oozed into the space in front of Blurr, cutting him off mid-step.

Blurr looked up at him with a frown. “None of your business,” he said, gaze flicking over Shockwave’s frame and noting the scraped over place where a badge should have been. “Neutrals might as well be Decepticons for as good as they do me. Now step aside.”

Primus, he was feisty. Shockwave’s engine rumbled. Longarm had yet to take advantage of this one, and he felt that lack now. He still had hopes of swaying Blurr to Lord Megatron’s side.

“Afraid I can’t do that,” Shockwave said with a hip cock and a wink of his optics. “This’s a dangerous place for a pretty thing like you.”

“I can take care of myself.” Blurr’s armor flicked. He planted his hands on his hips, his expression setting into a firm glower. “Now get out of the way. You’re not the mech I’m looking for.”

“Maybe I know ‘im.” Shockwave didn’t move, and didn’t bother calming the rev of his engine either. Above the noise and bustle, Blurr wouldn’t be able to hear it. “Could help cut down on the search time.”

Blurr snorted. “Doubt it.”

“Try me.” Shockwave’s peripheral sensors scanned the room, but Twist-Up hadn’t arrived yet. Small favor. “I’m good for lots of things.” He performed an exaggerated wink.

Blurr folded his arms. “Goes by Twist-Up.”

Frag. Shockwave pinged out an abort code on a line Blurr should not have any access or awareness of.

Shockwave kept up the charming smile. “Never heard of him,” he all but chirped and turned, slinging an arm over Blurr’s shoulder, trying to guide him toward the bar. “But tell ya what, why don’t I keep ya company while ya look, eh?”

“I don’t consort with Decepticons,” Blurr said, trying to squirm out from beneath Shockwave’s arm.

He leaned a bit harder. He had more mass to him than Blurr could possibly know. “I ain’t a Decepticon, remember? Besides, I don’t know the mech, but someone here does, I’ll bet, and I know everyone here.”

“I don’t need your help!”

Shockwave tightened his grip on Blurr’s shoulder as the Agent’s shout started to attract some unwanted attention. Frag again. Cybertronians were welcome here, but not much liked. If Blurr caused trouble, they’d both be fighting for their sparks.

He leaned in close, right next to Blurr’s audial. “Best be careful now, Autobot,” he murmured, and made a short gesture with one long finger. “Don’t want to get the locals riled up, do ya? They’ll take any reason to gut a Cybertronian. Word on the starways is that we’re very valuable, but only in pieces.”

Blurr stiffened. He went silent, but his field spiked with alarm.

“Now, if you be calm and polite and spend some credits, there won’t be any cause for worrying,” Shockwave continued, steadily guiding Blurr toward the bar. “Don’t worry. Old Razorwire will watch out for you.”

“Out of the kindness of your spark, I imagine,” Blurr muttered, his tone just shy of venomous.

Shockwave chuckled. “Well,” he said, with a lingering caress to Blurr’s shoulder, “I did always have an optic for the pretty ones.”

Blurr chuffed a vent at him. “Don’t expect me to be grateful.”

Shockwave’s peripheral sensor scanned the room, and relief flooded him when it caught Twist-Up scooting out a side door. Crisis averted.

For now.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Shockwave purred and settled in against the bar next to Blurr, catching the Agent between him and a large, intimidating alien. “Now, what’s your name, pretty? Or should I just keep callin’ ya that?”

“Blurr,” he bit out, expression set with stubbornness and wariness and all kinds of delightful expressions that Shockwave captured and saved for later.

“Pretty name,” Shockwave said and gestured for the bartender to come back their way. “Now what can I get ya, Blurr? Aside from the information that is.”

Indecision rippled across the Agent’s face, before it smoothed out and every inch of Blurr shifted from agitated discomfort to calm confidence. He was officially in Intelligence mode now, Shockwave realized.

Even better.

“Oil,” Blurr said, and tilted his helm, smile ever so charming. “The finest this place has, Razorwire.” The syllables rolled off his glossa.

Shockwave fought back a shiver. “Oil it is,” he said, and placed his cred stick on the counter.

Maybe having to abort the meeting with Twist-Up wouldn’t be a complete loss after all. Maybe this was the start of something very, very profitable indeed.

  



	246. Amorous Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Ratchet/Wheeljack  
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Aphrodisiacs  
> Description: For once, it wasn’t Wheeljack’s fault.

For once, it wasn’t Wheeljack’s fault.

 _Ratchet_ should have taken a decom shower like everyone told him to. But since when had Ratchet listened to anyone honestly? Darn medic was the stubbornest person in the universe, even more than Ironhide and Optimus, both of which he’d ignored as well.

And now here Wheeljack was, with a very amorous mate trying to crawl under his plating, with the kind of grabby hands that would make an octopus jealous.

Pity it took an alien aphrodisiac to make Ratchet this darn affectionate.

“Come on, Jackie, frag me,” Ratchet whined, pawing at his interface array, his expression so open and hungry that it made him look centuries younger and ten times adorable and Wheeljack felt all of his resolve crumble.

“Dunno if that’s such a good idea, Ratch,” Wheeljack replied, and yet his fingers found their way to his mate’s seams and sensitive spots, making Ratchet shiver and tremble as he kept climbing right into Wheeljack’s lap.

Oof.

“I say it is,” Ratchet huffed and slung his arms over Wheeljack’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. His ample windshield was not nearly enough for an appropriate distance. “What? I’m not attractive to you anymore? Am I too old and cranky?” He accompanied the demand with a roll of his hips that should have been illegal, his wet valve leaving a sticky streak over Wheeljack’s abdomen and pelvis.

Wheeljack gripped his hips. “Aw, Ratch. That’s not fair.” His engine revved, interface array pinging him for release. He had a willing mate in his arms, what more did he want?

Quiet you, Wheeljack thought at his array. He didn’t have to act like a ‘face starved idiot.

Ratchet’s knees dug into Wheeljack’s hips as he rocked against Wheeljack more urgently. “Then frag me already. Primus!” He ex-vented a burst of scorching heat, his frame trembling, his spike poking at Wheeljack’s belly. “My lines are itching and my circuits are burning and I’m so fragging empty that it hurts.”

Wheeljack’s spark throbbed. His hands smoothed up Ratchet’s sides, down his back, cupping his hips and aft again. His processor hesitated, but his spike had no such compunction, punching through his blocks to free itself, the wet head of it brushing over Ratchet’s inner thigh. Drips of hot lubricant landed on his unit, and Wheeljack groaned, tripping in his battle against Ratchet’s inelegant seduction.

“Fine,” Wheeljack bit out as he shifted just enough that he could rock his spikehead against Ratchet’s rim. “But for the record, it wasn’t my fault this time.”

“Noted,” Ratchet gasped and dropped down, swallowing Wheeljack’s spike in one smooth motion, his valve hot and gripping and hungry as he took Wheeljack to the hilt.

Wheeljack’s engine screeched, his backstrut arching as Ratchet proceeded to ride his spike like there was no tomorrow, like salvation could only be found in a thick, throbbing spike piercing his valve.

Primus.

There was no ifs, ands, or buts about it. No one was in control here. Not Wheeljack. Not Ratchet. Nothing but whatever alien compound had slithered into Ratchet’s coding.

All Wheeljack could do was hold on for the ride, and enjoy the sight of his mate blissed out on pleasure for once, making all of these yummy, sexy noises and bearing the energy of a mech who hadn’t worked three shifts back to back after pulling more sparks from Unicron’s hold.

Damn it. After this, they were going on vacation whether Ratchet liked it or not.

Just as soon as Wheeljack survived this.

But oh, what a way to go.

  



	247. Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Prowl, Tarantulas   
> Universe: IDW, SotW  
> Rating: M  
> Description: Tarantulas promised to keep him. Tarantulas swore he would always want him.

Prowl swore that the walls were changing around him. No sooner had he mapped his progress, then did his map prove to be wrong and he had to start all over again, all with the noise of multiple feet skittering after him, right on his heelstruts.

His spark hammered in his chassis. He remembered an adage, an old one, something he’d caught a human saying once. Times like these, drastic times called for drastic measures.

He kept the right wall in his periphery and he moved forward. He ran, cursing his inability to transform, for wheels would be much faster than feet right now, while a multi-opticked menace tracked him from the shadows.

“Dearest, you know that the longer this takes, the more excited I will be,” Tarantulas cooed at him, from what seemed to be a thousand different directions, though logic dictated it could only be one. “I do not know why you persist in making this difficult.”

Prowl ground his denta. He refused to respond. He would not give Tarantulas an edge in locating him. He would run until he ran out of charge, if he had to. He had a chance, however slim, and he would seize it.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Tarantulas purred and more skittering accompanied the sound, more slithering in the dim. “You need only say the word.”

 _Never_.

Prowl darted down an adjoining corridor, his spark pounding in his chassis, his vents heaving. Condensation left a trail behind him. His energon levels steadily declined.

“Have I not always been generous?”

Closer now. Right behind him, must be. Words like the skitter of tiny insecticons up his backstruts, making his plating crawl.

Prowl calculated. He changed tactics. He dove to the left and--

\--right into a dead end. Frag. Frag. Frag. Fr--

A scraping pedestep. Prowl’s armor clamped. He turned ever so slowly, already knowing that there was nowhere to run. That Tarantulas now stood behind him, caging him in, finding him once more.

“Come with me, Prowl,” Tarantulas said, his horrifically organic form blotting out all the light, one hand reaching for Prowl. “I want to show you something naughty.”

Prowl trembled, though he would deny it to his dying day, even as his array cycled into readiness and resignation poured over him from head to foot.

“I will escape,” he said, hands forming fists, even as Tarantulas stalked closer, and the tip of one of his fingers brushed over Prowl’s cheek ridge.

Tarantulas chuckled, dark and deadly. “And I will enjoy watching you try,” he murmured as his finger slid down to Prowl’s intake. “As much as I enjoy celebrating your failures.” His optics were pinpoints of brightness and Prowl felt as though he were drowning in them.

Prowl ground his denta until he tasted sparks.

“I will keep you,” Tarantulas purred, the heat of him pouring over Prowl like a consuming flashfire. “I will _always_ keep you. Because I’m the only one who wants you as you are, my Prowl.”

His finger was gentle, disturbingly so, as it traced around Prowl’s face and Prowl offlined his optics so as not to look at him.

He hated every one of Tarantulas’ promise, every one of his vows. He hated how much they stank of truth.

And he hated himself for the tiniest spark that wanted to believe it.

  



	248. Just Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Sunstreaker/Sideswipe   
> Universe: G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex, Twincest  
> Description: It wasn’t often that Sunstreaker managed to get Sideswipe still and pliant beneath him, but the times when he did were worth all the more for their rarity.

It wasn’t often that Sunstreaker managed to get Sideswipe still and pliant beneath him, but the times when he did were worth all the more for their rarity.

Like now, when he was curled around Sideswipe from behind, every inch of him covering every inch of Sideswipe, his spike nestled snug in Sideswipe’s very warm and welcoming valve, calipers twitching intermittently.

Their fields were synced, their ventilations matched, and even the push-pull of their spark rhythms came to a perfect harmony. It was the closest thing to peace Sunstreaker had ever felt, and the languid, satisfied pulses along their bond meant that Sideswipe echoed the sentiment.

Until he started to squirm. Because Sideswipe could never be still for long.

His aft pushed back into the cradle of Sunstreaker’s pelvis, his valve twitching increased in earnest. “Wanna overload,” he mumbled, ex-venting puffs of heat over Sunstreaker’s armor.

Sunstreaker fitted an arm beneath him, pressing his hand to his twin’s chestplate, right over the central seam. “Like this?” he asked, purring directly into Sideswipe’s audial, voice low.

Sideswipe shivered. A small whine eked from his engine. “Yes,” he growled. “Fragging love it when you do that.” His aft pushed harder, making small circles, lubricant welling up around Sunstreaker’s spike as charge nipped out.

Sunstreaker chuckled, still dark and low. “I know you do.” Yet, he kept himself still, bearing more of his weight down on Sideswipe, until his twin couldn’t get the leverage to push back, could only lay there, with Sunstreaker’s spike throbbing in his valve, and no other motion to speak of.

“Think you can overload just to the sound of my voice?” Sunstreaker murmured. He licked at the edge of Sideswipe’s audial, just a quick pass of his glossa.

Sideswipe shuddered, his field pulsing a volcanic heat, and their bond skipped. “We could find out,” he said, vents coming sharper, his valve squeezing down tighter and his chestplates juttering under Sunstreaker’s fingertips. “You up to the challenge?”

“The better question is, brother, do you have what it takes to resist?” Sunstreaker murmured and dragged his lips over the curve of Sideswipe’s jaw. “Because I have _all_ night to practice.”

Sideswipe groaned and twisted his fists in the berth cover. “Primus, I love you,” he gasped, his valve quivering with anticipation.

Sunstreaker grinned and tilted his head against Sideswipe’s, his spark pulsing with affection. “I know.”


	249. Point Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe: G1  
> Characters: Starscream, Jazz, implied Blue/Jazz  
> Rated: T  
> Warnings: threats of violence  
> Description: This is one of Starscream’s least favorite ways to online.

Starscream onlined with a gasp, immediately alert to the hot pressure against his intake, and the shadowy weight on his frame, not so much as a biolight giving hint to its owner.

“We had a deal, Seeker.”

Starscream didn’t bother to search the darkness. “I’m aware,” he retorted testily. “But Misfire is aptly named.”

The hot knife bit deeper, drawing a thin bead of energon. Proof positive that there was an assailant present. But Starscream’s sensors and scanners reported nothing.

“That’s not an apology,” hissed the Deathbringer on his chassis.

“It was barely a scratch!”

Something nudged at his chestplate, tracing the seam around his cockpit before it found the central part. A thinner blade eased into the seam, teasing the mechanisms beneath in blatant warning.

Starscream’s spark went cold.

“We had a deal.”

Starscream’s vents stuttered. “It won’t happen again,” he promised, hating himself for the treble of fear that rattled through his spark.

But there was a reason many Decepticons did not recharge in the dark. And the mech planted over his abdomen was it.

“Not so much as a scratch?” The blade at Starscream’s intake pushed deeper, drawing free another curl of energon.

“Or a dent.” Starscream rasped.

The knife vanished from his chestplate, but not his intake. Starscream didn’t dare vent a sigh of relief. There was yet time for him to extinguish. He couldn’t shoot Jazz faster than the little sneak could drive a knife into his spark or his processor.

“There won’t be another warning.”

“I know.”

The blade whisked away, taking a taste of Starscream’s energon with it. The deadly shade vanished.

Starscream waited for several beats of his spark. His sensors strained for any sight or sound of his attacker, but he waited in vain. There was nothing there. Only then did he ex-vent.

He found himself trembling.

A deal was a deal.

Starscream crafted the reminder to his Seekers, all those in his direct command. He tagged Misfire’s trinemates specifically. It was their job to keep a close optic on him. If he couldn’t be relied upon to _not_ fire upon a target, then they would all suffer.

Autobot Bluestreak was never to be harmed.

At _all_  costs.

Only when it was sent did Starscream dare touch his intake, feeling the damp reminder with his fingertips. Energon was tacky to the touch, already drying and repairing itself.

It was not a comfort.

Point taken.


	250. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Optimus/Megatron  
> Universe: IDW/G1  
> Rating: M  
> Warnings: Sticky Sex  
> Description: They were going to be late. But with Megatron squirming on his spike, Optimus couldn’t find it in him to care.

He didn’t know which was louder: Megatron’s gasping moans or the screech of his backplate as it rhythmically scraped the wall.

Optimus rolled his hips, pulling Megatron down onto his spike and grinding deep, riding hard on Megatron’s ceiling node. Lubricant squelched around his spike, dripping back onto his groin, sweet and tangy.

Megatron keened, his hands digging against Optimus’ clavicular strut. “Harder, rust you!” he demanded.

“Hush. Do you _want_ Ironhide to know where I’ve been?” Optimus demanded.

Megatron’s valve rippled, dancing along the length of Megatron’s spike. His thighs tightened, feet drumming against the back of Optimus’ legs.

“You just don’t want him to see you can’t keep your hands off me, naughty Prime,” Megatron growled.

Optimus flushed, both heat and arousal. His audials sparked and he slammed Megatron harder against the wall, hearing metal shriek in protest.

“Strike a sensor, did I?” Megatron laughed.

“Shut up.”

“So mature of you.” Fingers teased against Optimus’ clavicular strut, stroking against his seams.

Optimus growled and pressed their chestplates together, pinning Megatron hard and fast against the wall as he stole his mate’s lips. Denta clashed, the kiss messy and frantic as Optimus’ fast pace bounced Megatron in his lap.

They moaned in unison. More lubricant soaked Optimus’ groin.

They were going to be late.

Megatron bucked against him, valve spiraling tight, rippling around Optimus’ spike.

Oh, well.

Optimus supposed he’d just have to apologize.

But later. Much, much later.


End file.
